“My money,” she gasped.

“Julian, do something.

My accounts — my money—”

I crossed the room to her, unhurried, and looked down at my mother-in-law, this woman who had spent five years treating me as her personal servant and her personal bank, and I felt nothing at all but a clean and total contempt.

“Your money, Fiona?” I said, gently.

“You mean the money I have been transferring into your personal account, every single month, for five years?