Conrad slammed his cane against the table, the crack echoing like a gunshot.

“That child is illegitimate. You’re divorcing her. You signed the decree.”

“Am I?” Preston reached into the second folder and picked up the divorce decree — the document that would sever me from him, his wealth, and his protection forever.

He looked at his signature on the bottom line. Then, with deliberate slowness, he tore the thick parchment in half. He put the halves together and tore them again, and let the pieces rain down over the table, over the pens, over the ruins of his father’s plan like dirty snow.

“The marriage is intact,” Preston declared. “The heir is alive. The share transfer is void.”