Right on cue, Vivian chimed in with a remarkably convincing, trembling little sob.

“The poor, fragile thing,” she whimpered, dabbing at her dry eyes. “We begged her not to exert herself in the kitchen when she was in one of her exhausted, emotional states. But she just wouldn’t listen to reason.”

Behind the curtain, I kept my eyes clamped firmly shut. I slowed my breathing, letting the heart monitor beep along at a steady, unbothered rhythm.

Let them weave their tapestry of lies.

Let them dig the hole deeper.

For three agonizingly long years, they’d trained themselves to mistake my strategic silence for absolute stupidity.

They’d systematically tried to dismantle my autonomy. Daniel had seized control of our joint accounts, aggressively screened my incoming calls, and whispered to our entire social circle that I was emotionally unstable and prone to hysteria.