Chapter 3

The Met Gala was six days away, and I used every single hour.

While Marcus thought I was recovering in bed, I was on the phone eighteen hours a day, quietly detonating every bridge he had ever crossed.

First, the offshore accounts.

Marcus thought he was clever. He'd been siphoning money from a Sinclair subsidiary for over a year—small amounts, never enough to trigger an audit. But small amounts, over time, added up to ninety-three million dollars, all funneled into a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands.

The shell company's sole director? Vanessa Cole.

She had taken his last name. They weren't married—not legally—but she had changed it anyway, like a dog marking territory.

My forensic accountants traced every transaction. Every fraudulent invoice. Every forged signature.

I had David prepare two sets of documents: one for the FBI, one for the divorce.

Second, the penthouse.

Since the apartment was in my name, I had my property manager change the locks and install new security codes. Vanessa would find out soon enough, but not yet. Timing was everything.

Third, the guest list.

The Met Gala was being co-hosted by Sinclair Group this year. That meant I controlled the seating chart, the AV system, and the press credentials.

I made a few strategic additions.

A reporter from the New York Post who owed me a favor. A forensic accountant who could verify documents on the spot. And the head of the FBI's white-collar crime division, whom I seated at Table One—right next to Marcus.

Marcus, of course, knew none of this.

He came home from his "LA trip" with a tan and a Tiffany bracelet.

"For you, angel. I saw it and thought of you."

I let him clasp it around my wrist.

It was too small. It pinched my skin, leaving a red mark.

Later, I checked the receipt my security team had photographed. He'd bought two bracelets. Mine was the display model, given free with the purchase of a high-end diamond choker.

The choker had been delivered to Vanessa.

The same pattern. Always the leftover. Always the afterthought.

I wore the bracelet to bed that night and let him hold me.

"I love you so much, Elena," he murmured against my hair. "You and Oliver are my whole world."

I stared at the ceiling in the dark.

"Marcus?"

"Hmm?"

"I've decided to give you signing authority on the offshore accounts before the gala. You've earned it."

I felt his body tense with excitement, though he tried to hide it.

"Really? Are you sure? That's a huge responsibility."

"I trust you completely. David will have the papers ready by Friday."

He pulled me closer, his grip almost desperate.

"You won't regret it. I promise."

I smiled into the darkness.

No, Marcus. You will.

On Friday morning, David brought the papers to our home office. Marcus signed them with a flourish, barely reading the fine print.

He didn't notice that the documents granted him authority over a single account—one I had seeded with exactly zero dollars and forty-seven cents.

The real accounts had been moved, restructured, and firewalled behind so many layers of corporate protection that not even God could touch them without my biometric authorization.

Marcus celebrated by taking Vanessa to dinner at Le Bernardin. My security team got photos of them toasting with champagne, his hand on her thigh under the table.

I tucked Oliver into his crib and whispered, "Almost time, sweetheart."

Then I opened my laptop and finalized the gala's AV presentation.

The centerpiece of the evening was supposed to be a tribute video celebrating Sinclair Group's philanthropic work.

I had made a few edits.