A terrifying silence fell over the room. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I felt a sudden, absolute clarity.

“Call Clara,” I said. “Tell her a private investigator hired by a bank wants to meet her at the safe house. Don’t tell her it’s me.”

Two hours later, Clara walked into a soundproof room at a high-end hotel I owned. When she saw me at the table instead of an investigator, she froze.

I pushed the Blue Lantern documents toward her, along with the photos of Liam kissing Chloe Mercer in Paris.

Clara collapsed into the chair. She didn’t look at the fraud documents. She only looked at the photos of her husband with another woman, the illusion of her marriage shattering in real time. A gut-wrenching sob tore from her throat.

“He told me I was the reason we were struggling,” she choked out, tears ruining her blouse. “He said if I just signed the papers, we could be happy.”