When Clara got engaged to Liam, she begged me to keep it a secret. “I want him to love me for me, Mom. Not for Holloway Global.”

So I honored her wish, wearing cheap cardigans and driving an old car to their country-club dinners, playing the part of the poor, uneducated widow.

The morning after I ordered Julian to cut Vance off, I was at my modest kitchen table sipping tea when a sleek black Mercedes pulled into my driveway.

Beatrice Vance stepped out in a cashmere coat that cost more than the house she thought I lived in. She didn’t knock. She pushed my front door open.

“Eleanor,” she sighed, waving a hand in front of her nose as if my home smelled of garbage. “I found your cheap reading glasses in my foyer. Try not to leave your clutter in my home.”

She tossed the glasses onto my counter — and as she did, her eyes snagged on something beside my notepad.