My husband opened his eyes after the car crash—and went pale when he saw me standing beside his mistress. She was clutching red roses in the private hospital room I had paid for, with my missing diamond bracelet glittering on her wrist like she already owned my life. His mother watched me carefully, waiting for me to cry, scream, or humiliate myself in front of everyone. None of them realized the hospital bracelet had already exposed the one name they had forgotten to erase.

Twenty-four hours after his surgery, Grant woke up in the intensive care unit of St. Catherine’s to the sound of quiet rain tapping against the double-paned glass.

The room was silent. There were no flowers, no family members, and no high-priced lawyers sitting by his bedside.

The door clicked open, and I walked in, carrying a single thermos of cold water and a thin white envelope.

Grant moved his head slowly, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes met mine. He looked broken—his neck stabilized by a heavy brace, his face pale and bruised, lines of clear monitoring tubes running into his arms.

“Avery...” he rasped, his voice barely audible above the hum of the oxygen machine.

I pulled a heavy wooden chair to the side of his bed and sat down, smoothing my skirt over my knees.

“The doctors say your spinal alignment surgery was successful,” I said, my tone as neutral as a weather report. “You’ll be able to walk again in six months, provided you do the physical therapy.”

Grant swallowed hard, a single tear slipping down his bruised cheek. “Where’s Mom? Where’s Maddie?”

“Your mother was released on five million dollars bail two hours ago,” I replied. “Her passport has been surrendered, her bank cards are canceled, and she is currently staying in a small two-bedroom rental apartment in Queens because the family estate has been sealed by the court.”

Grant’s eyes widened in horror. “Queens? Mom... in Queens?”

“And Madison is currently held at the Rose M. Singer Center on Rikers Island,” I continued without breaking my cadence. “Her bail was set at two million dollars. Neither she nor her family has the funds to post it, and since your mother’s accounts are frozen, no one is paying her legal fees.”

Grant closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in rapid, desperate gasps. “You... you destroyed everything, Avery... my family... my company...”

“You destroyed yourself, Grant,” I said, leaning forward and placing the white envelope on his tray table. “The moment you decided that your wife’s devotion was something to be exploited, and your daughter’s future was something to be gambled away on illegal real estate schemes.”

Grant looked at the white envelope. “What’s that?”

“Divorce papers,” I said flatly. “Along with a full parental rights relinquishment agreement. You will sign them before midnight tonight.”

Grant let out a bitter, raspy laugh. “And if I don't? I’m still your husband, Avery. You can’t force me to sign away my daughter!”

I leaned in closer, my face inches from his pale, trembling ear.

“If you sign those papers, Grant, my legal team will decline to submit the secondary audio recordings from your vehicle’s dashcam to the federal prosecutors—the recordings where you explicitly outline your plan to frame your mother and Madison if the SEC ever caught up to you.”

Grant froze completely, every muscle in his neck going rigid against the brace.

“You... you have the dashcam audio?” he choked out, his eyes wide with absolute, horrifying realization.

“I have every second of audio from your car for the last ninety days,” I whispered, a dark, victorious light gleaming in my eyes. “I know what you said about your mother. I know what you said about Madison. And if that tape plays in court, Celeste’s defense team will make sure you take the absolute fall for every single count of fraud.”

Grant stared at me, his lip trembling, completely stripped of every shred of arrogance, power, and dignity.

“You’re a monster...” he whimpered.