Then I reached behind the loose tile beneath the sink and pulled out the small black phone Ethan didn’t know existed.
Three unread messages waited for me.
One from my lawyer.
One from my accountant.
One from the private investigator I’d hired six weeks earlier.
I opened the investigator’s message first.
Final evidence package complete.
A slow smile spread across my split lip.
Ethan had finally given me the one thing my case had been missing.
Proof.
The next morning, Ethan walked into the kitchen carrying a luxury cosmetics bag.
“My mother’s coming for lunch,” he said casually. “Cover that up and smile.”
I took the bag from his hands.
And smiled.
At noon sharp, Evelyn Whitmore arrived wearing cream pearls and the expression of a woman who believed she had already won.
She swept into my home without knocking, kissed Ethan’s cheek, and looked me over with thinly disguised satisfaction.
“You look exhausted, Claire,” she said.
Ethan smirked behind his coffee cup.
I placed lunch on the dining table. Roast chicken. Garlic potatoes. White wine. Her favorites.
The performance needed to be flawless.
Evelyn sat at the head of the table.
My chair.
“Ethan tells me you’ve come to your senses,” she said.
I poured wine into her crystal glass. “Did he?”
“He said you were emotional last night.” She smiled. “Young wives often are. Marriage requires discipline.”
Ethan leaned back in his chair, relaxed and smug. He believed the makeup hid everything. He believed the house belonged to him. He believed I was broken.
“You’ll clear out the guest room tomorrow,” Evelyn continued. “I’ll move my things in this weekend.”
“Of course,” I replied softly.
Ethan grinned. “See? Was that so difficult?”
“No,” I said calmly. “Not difficult at all.”
My composure unsettled him for a split second. Then Evelyn laughed, and his confidence returned.
That was Ethan’s weakness.
Approval.
