Vanessa immediately burst into loud, theatrical tears, dropping to her knees in a desperate play for sympathy.

“I didn’t know!” she sobbed hysterically, looking at the shocked faces of the investors around her. “He lied to me! He told me Clara agreed to the restructuring! I’m a victim here!”

From the shadow of the altar, my attorney, Marisol Venn, stepped forward, adjusting her glasses.

She held a thick red legal folder in her hands.

“Vanessa Cross,” Marisol said, her voice dripping with absolute disdain. “Your personal, encrypted emails strongly suggest otherwise.”

The mistress’s sobs caught in her throat.

She went entirely rigid.