“What they look like?” I straightened, clutching the photographs to my chest. “You’re my husband. You’re supposed to know me better than a collection of pictures taken by someone hiding in a car.”

Chapter 4 — The Envelope

Eleanor Caldwell stepped forward — elegant even in anger, silver-blond hair swept into a polished knot, charcoal suit perfectly fitted. Nothing about her ever appeared accidental.

Not her posture, not her silences, and certainly not her presence in our home.

“This family cannot survive scandal,” she said.

I stared at her. “What scandal?”

“The kind that begins quietly and ends with reporters standing outside our gates.”