Before I married him, I worked as a forensic accountant for the Attorney General’s office. I understood hidden money, shell companies, forged contracts, and how powerful men panic when the evidence finally surfaces.
Marcus forgot that.
Or maybe he simply underestimated me.
The morning I was released, a black sedan stopped beside the curb.
Inside sat my former mentor, attorney Celeste Mora, sharp-eyed and elegant as ever.
“Ready?” she asked.
I stepped into the car without looking back at the prison.
“Not yet,” I replied quietly. “First, I want him comfortable.”
Marcus celebrated loudly.
Three days later, photos of his engagement party with Vivian flooded social media. They smiled beneath crystal chandeliers at the top of Vale Tower — my father’s building, now carrying Marcus’s name like stolen property.
The headlines called it:
“A beautiful new beginning after tragedy.”
I sat in a tiny apartment across town reading every word.
Celeste poured tea beside me.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” she replied. “Pain keeps your hands steady.”
On the laptop between us sat the truth.
Offshore accounts.
Fake charities.
Money laundering.
