I did not flush the rest of the bottle.

I sealed it in a freezer bag and locked it in the small personal safe in my dressing room, the one Sennett didn’t know the combination to.

Then I called a doctor — not his concierge doctor, a real one, at a hospital across the city where no one knew my name — and I had my blood drawn, and I asked for a full toxicology screen, and I paid cash.

Whatever was in those pills was also in me, and I wanted it documented by a lab with no connection to my husband, my company, or my family, in a chain of custody a lawyer could stand on.

I was a Whitby.

My grandfather had built an empire, and whatever else he had been, he had taught me one thing that turned out to be worth more than all of it: never accuse from a position you can’t prove.