Daniel closed his eyes.
There it was.
The second lie.
For two years, Daniel had let his mother believe he was a rising executive supporting a pretty, dependent wife. At dinners, he described my investment firm as “Rachel’s little project.” When clients praised me, he interrupted. When Patricia mocked my late nights, he smiled like I was eccentric.
But he had never told her the truth.
I was not his ornament.
I was his employer.
And worse for him, I was the one who had approved his access, his salary, his credit card, his vehicle, and the regional accounts he thought no one was watching.
Mark extended his hand.
“The keys, Mr. Hayes.”
Daniel’s voice dropped into a threat. “Rachel, don’t embarrass me.”
I looked at the torn white dress lying across the chair beside me.
“You embarrassed yourself.”
Patricia grabbed Daniel’s sleeve. “Tell me she’s lying.”
Daniel did not.
He handed over the keys.
When the Range Rover drove away, Patricia looked smaller, but not remorseful. Her pride was bleeding, and she wanted someone to blame.
“This is because of a dress?” she shouted.
“No,” I said. “The dress was only the moment I stopped pretending.”
Then my attorney, Helen Brooks, called.
“We found the transfers,” she said.
I looked through the camera at Daniel.
