Daniel needed to believe I was destitute, crushed under the weight of his betrayal.

He’d even sent a mocking text the day before: Hope the vending-machine diet is working out for you.

I hadn’t replied. I was too busy sitting in the oak-paneled conference room of Franklin & Meyers on Park Avenue.

Mr. Meyers — a man whose tailored suits and sharp intellect commanded any room — slid a thick binder across the polished table. His usually impassive face held a trace of genuine disgust.

“Your instincts were correct, Emily,” he said, folding his hands.

“Daniel didn’t just forge your signature on the primary loan. He created a shadow shell company in your name and has been funneling the toxic assets from his failing firm into it for eighteen months. When the balloon payment hits Friday, the creditors — who, I’ll add, are not the kind of people who send polite letters — will come looking for the sole proprietor of that shell company. You.”