A witness protected before trial.
A bank account frozen before sunrise.
Marcus thought prison would destroy me.
Instead, it stripped away everything soft.
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.
