The first page named me as the sole heir to Rosalind Whitaker’s estate. I read the number three times and still could not make it fit inside my head. Rosalind, the quiet widow whose mouth I wiped and whose stories I listened to for two years, had been worth a fortune I never once suspected. Real estate. Investments. And, at the very top of the itemized list, a controlling stake in a downtown redevelopment company. My hands began to shake, because I recognized the name of that company. It was the exact project Julian had spent the entire dinner bragging about.

Theodore watched my face. “You understand now,” he said quietly. “Mrs. Whitaker owned the majority position in the development your husband and Mr. Sterling have been trying to finalize for months. Without her signature, and now yours, their deal cannot close.” I finally understood why Julian’s attorney had been calling since sunrise. My husband had thrown me away, in front of witnesses, on the very night I inherited control of the future he thought he was stealing. The woman he called ambitionless had just become the one person standing between him and everything he wanted.