Victor had kissed me that morning and said, “Don’t get your hopes up, sweetheart. At your age, miracles usually come with fine print.”
Now I understood the fine print.
I slipped my shoes back on slowly. My hands had stopped trembling.
Elena touched my arm. “Are you safe going home?”
“No,” I said. “But they don’t know that.”
Because Victor believed I was just his aging wife—grateful for his money, desperate for his love.
He forgot whose money bought the house.
He forgot who built Lang & Vale Holdings before he married into it.
Most of all, he forgot I had spent twenty years negotiating with men who smiled while hiding knives.
I took the forged consent form, folded it once, and tucked it into my purse.
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