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During my birthday party, my mother-in-law leaned over and quietly told my husband something. I noticed his face change before I even had a chance to respond.

On my birthday, as I stood greeting guests in the grand hall, I caught a glimpse of my mother-in-law, Victoria, leaning toward James to whisper something in his ear. His face changed instantly—confusion flickered in his eyes, then something harder. Before I could react, I felt his hand strike my cheek and I tumbled to the polished marble floor. Dazed, I watched him turn and walk away without another word. Then, quite unexpectedly, a slow laugh bubbled up from my chest. James stopped dead in his tracks. His face drained of color.

The message on my screen glowed like a secret revelation: the rules of the Harrington Trust state that a couple must remain married for at least five years with no legal separation, or the funds are withheld.

My fingers shook as I sent that email to my secure server—this was the last piece of the puzzle I’d been assembling in secret.

Morning light filtered through the heavy drapes of our Beacon Hill home, the same drapes that had cost more than my college tuition. I snapped my laptop shut just as the bathroom door swung open. James stepped out wrapped in a towel, steam still clinging to his skin. Even at thirty-seven, he looked as fit and elegant as ever—but the spark in his eyes was gone.

“Happy birthday, Elise,” he said, his voice flat and rehearsed. He brushed a kiss on my cheek that felt colder than the steamed glass behind him. “Mother is so pleased about tonight’s party.”

I smiled, though my chest tightened. “I really appreciate everything Victoria has done,” I said evenly. Years in the courtroom had taught me how to keep my face still when my heart was racing.

He glanced at my closed computer. “What were you working on?”

“Oh, just some merger files for Caldwell & Pierce,” I lied smoothly. “Even on my birthday I can’t take a day off.”

He nodded without question. In the early days of our marriage, he might have teased me about being a workaholic, even tried to pull me back to bed. But that James was gone—now I lived with a man who moved through life like a robot following his family’s commands.

As James dressed for work, I slipped into our walk-in closet—the only room without Victoria’s hidden cameras. Last fall, she’d installed a full surveillance system “for our security.” A few months ago, I’d discovered the tiny recorders tucked away in corners. I left them running, feeding them a fake loop of ordinary sounds whenever I needed true privacy.