In that moment, the bank transfers I’d dismissed, the hotel photographs, the missing necklace—my grandmother’s priceless heirloom—spilled into my mind like a broken dam.
“Rowan, please,” Megan’s voice had once cracked in our foyer, “Someone is setting me up.”
I had ordered security to escort my own wife out, convinced it was a nightmare. Now the pieces clicked, each jagged edge pointing to a lie stitched into my very home.
“Claire,” I said, voice low, “who really paid for those transfers?”
She laughed, eyes glittering with mischief. “You’re overthinking, love. It’s just business.”
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