Chandler had never been able to bear that she was brilliant and he was merely capable — that the firm’s biggest clients asked for her, that her name was the one whispered with fear in courthouses while his was merely known.

And in the months before the crash, Adaira had started, quietly, to pull a thread that ran through the firm’s escrow accounts.

Money was missing — a great deal of it.

Signatures had been forged.

And every time she’d raised it, Chandler had given her that patient, patronizing smile and said, Not everything in life is one of your trials, sweetheart. She had not understood, then, what the smile was hiding.

Lying in the dark, listening to him perform his devotion for the nurses, she was beginning to.