My cherry-red stilettos clacked quickly on the marble floor of the entranceway as I stalked past the reception desk and towards the main office. A startled receptionist blinked at me, told the person on the phone to "please hold," and scrambled after me.

"Miss! Miss! You can't go in there!" I ignored her, shoving the office door open with a loud grunt. The receptionist chased me. "Miss!"

I pushed forward, my anger fueling my brisk walk in Christian Louboutins.

Functionality – necessary in all things except fashion.

I thundered past Pepper wordlessly, my eyes narrowed to slits. She scrambled from her desk and joined the receptionist, who was doing a shocking job of keeping up with me.

"Ms. Walters?" she ventured, casting a glance over her shoulder at the receptionist that was clearly meant to say "You weren't supposed to let her in!"

I snarled at her. "Where is he, Pepper?" I heard Pepper fall in quick step beside me.

"He's not to be disturbed." I jerked my head quickly to glare at her.

"Where. Is. He." I seethed, never breaking my stride. In my peripheral vision, Pepper bit her lip.

Good. She was nervous. I liked making Pepper nervous.

"He's…not to be disturbed," she repeated, her voice a little smaller.

I knew then that my eyes were changing colors, thus the fear in her eyes. I ignored her and pushed through the main office door. The door fell open with a loud crash and Tony looked up, startled, from his blueprints.

"Jenn? Pep, I said I didn't –"

"Want to be disturbed! She told me." I snarled, storming up to him, slamming my hands on the desk. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I questioned.

"Perhaps this would be better taken care of at home?" Tony suggested quietly, nodding slightly to Pepper and the receptionist to call security. I glared at him.

"No. It wouldn't. And why? Because you're NEVER FUCKING HOME." I bellowed. Tony barely winced.

Barely. But he winced.

"Jenn, please – "

"DON'T you dare "Jenn" me!" I shouted. "You know exactly why I'm here and no, Pepper," I turned in her direction, "I will NOT keep my voice down!" Pepper shrank back a little as I took in another breath to yell at Tony. "How long?" I asked. Tony looked at me. "How. Long." I repeated. Tony looked at me.

"Ms. Walters, if I could just interject – " Pepper began. I held up my hand.

"Pep, I swear to God, you or the receptionist in the knock-off Jimmy Choos fucking speak again, I will drive my very real Lubbies RIGHT INTO YOUR FUCKING NECKS." My voice rose a few octaves but my message came across loud and clear.

Pepper and the receptionist, who was babbling about her "real Jimmy Choos" and how I was insane to "suggest that they were knock-offs and so loudly too," backed out of the office. I turned back to Tony.

"Just tell me how long." I pleaded quietly, looking for any sign of denial in his eyes. His eyebrows moved a fraction of an inch towards each other and he almost looked pained, but he covered it quickly.

He sighed. "Three months." I twisted on my heel and walked out.

"I'll be gone by tomorrow morning." A chair scraped along the floor as Tony scrambled to follow me out of the office.

"Jenn. Jenny! Jenn, come on!"

I kept walking.

"Dammit, Jenn, I'm sorry!" he called and I realized that he'd stopped at the office door.

I kept walking.

I hit the elevator button softly, all the rage I'd felt whooshing out of me as soon as Tony had admitted his infidelity. I climbed into the large elevator car, looking dignified, feeling utterly broken, a brittle smile on my face. The elevator doors swished closed and still I refused to break.

There were cameras, cameras he had access to, and I wouldn't break in here.

I clacked my way across the lobby, nodding to the two security guards waiting at the desk to escort me out.

"No longer necessary, gentlemen, but if it will make you feel better…" I held out my arms passively as the guards flanked either side.

We walked out into the dirty New York sunlight. I grimaced at the guards, not smiling because I wasn't capable, and set about hailing a cab back to my office. I thrust my arm out and a taxi screeched to a halt next to me.

"Walters, Gunn, and Dennis," I commanded, tossing a $50 bill at the driver. Too much for the ride, but I didn't care. We sped off.

I still didn't break. Tony had spies everywhere and when they could not spy, he took it upon himself to follow those who needed extra attention.

I didn't want to risk breaking here.

The cabbie slammed on the breaks, tossing me forward, ungracefully, into his headrest.

"Out," the cabbie commanded. I rubbed my head and growled softly.

"Thanks for the concussion, keep the change." I strode into the building where my office, the entire 34th floor, was located.

I will not break here. I must not break here.

I barely touched the elevator button before it arrived and whisked me up to my plush floor: overstuffed armchairs, nearly silent employees, discreet lawyers. I padded my way across the carpeted floor, nodding to my assistant, Dena, who grabbed a pad of paper, pen, and her tell-tale coffee mug.

I whirled into my office and quickly shut the door behind Dena. She sat quickly, pen at the ready, coffee mug at her feet. I took a deep breath before speaking.

"I have a meeting with Clint this afternoon, so I would like lunch from the Chipotle on 7th, not the Chipotle in Times; they charge twice as much and give you half of what you ask for when you order. I need several cans of Diet Coke; cans, not bottles, not glasses," I took a deep breath before continuing, "I also need the name of the best divorce lawyer in the States and one in Europe."

Dena's head snapped up, her eyes searching mine before reluctantly going back down to her notepad again.

"Okay, regular Chipotle order from 7th, not Times, a 12-pack of Diet Coke…" Dena hesitated before finishing, "…and Gloria Allred…in divorce lawyer form." Her eyes met mine. "Correct?"

I closed the sliding blinds on my windows, suddenly close to breaking. I nodded, not trusting my voice, and waved a hand at her. Dena packed up quickly and left, closing my heavy oak door behind her.

I immediately crumpled to the floor, not caring that I was wrinkling my professionally-cleaned $500 suit or smearing my $70 mascara with the back of my hand. I couldn't stop staring at my engagement ring, at my wedding ring, at my 5-year anniversary ring.

I curled up on the carpet, hoping that Clint didn't come in early for our meeting, and sobbed.

I should have changed. At least then I wouldn't feel anything but rage.