It had all been staged.

The red dress, the child, the timing, the audience — none of it was passion.

It was strategy.

But there was one file that was worse than all the rest, an audio recording Tommy had pulled from the phone, made a few weeks before the party, and when the attorney played it, and I heard my mother-in-law’s voice come out of the laptop speaker, my hands went cold in my lap.

“If she won’t sign over those shares willingly,” Eleanor’s recorded voice said, calm as anything, “use the boy.