MY HUSBAND’S PREGNANT MISTRESS ORDERED EVERY WOMAN TO WEAR A BACKLESS DRESS—KNOWING I HAD SEVERE BURN SCARS. SHE NEVER EXPECTED THE WOMAN WHO SAVED HIS LIFE TO DESTROY HIS EMPIRE.

I left Glass Tower with a copy of the documents and a feeling I couldn't name.

For years, Preston had made me believe that I was lucky he stayed married to me. He had convinced me that my scars were a private tragedy, that his embarrassment was understandable, and that my financial dependence was proof I needed him.

But I had not always been dependent.

Before the fire, I had worked in corporate risk analysis. I understood contracts, financial disclosures, and the language executives used when they wanted to hide something in plain sight.

I had left my job after the accident because rehabilitation consumed every hour of my life. Preston promised he would take care of everything.

He had also persuaded me to sign documents giving him authority over several household investments.

I now wondered what else I had signed.

At home, I found Cassidy sitting at the kitchen island.

She wore a cream maternity dress and held a glass of sparkling water. Preston stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder.

Neither looked surprised to see me.

"Where have you been?" Preston asked.

"Working."

Cassidy smiled.

"How exciting. We were just discussing the gala."

I put my bag down.

"I've seen the invitation."

"Wonderful." She tilted her head. "You should come. It would be such a shame if people thought you were hiding."

Preston shot her a warning glance, but she ignored it.

"I chose the dress code myself," she continued. "It's elegant, modern, and very flattering. Of course, not everyone can pull it off."

I looked at her.

"Why ban shawls?"

She laughed softly.

"Because it's a gala, Vivian. Not a hospital waiting room."

Preston sighed.

"Don't start."

I turned to him.

"Are you going to the gala with Cassidy?"

"She's organizing it."

"That's not what I asked."

He walked toward the refrigerator.

"You're making this unnecessarily difficult."

Cassidy lowered her eyes and touched her stomach.

"Preston, please. The baby doesn't need stress."

I almost laughed. She had used that sentence as if it were a shield.

"How far along are you?" I asked.

Her smile disappeared for a fraction of a second.

"That's personal."

"You're carrying my husband's child. It stopped being private when you brought it into my home."

Preston slammed the refrigerator door.

"Enough!"

For a moment, the old fear returned. The instinct to apologize, to retreat, to make the room peaceful.

Then I remembered the photograph.

"You're right," I said calmly. "Enough."

I went upstairs.

In my dressing room, I removed the robe that Preston had insisted I wear whenever guests visited. Beneath it, my scars ran from one shoulder blade to the small of my back—uneven, raised, and impossible to hide.

I looked at them in the mirror.

They were not beautiful in the way magazines defined beauty.

They were not symmetrical or delicate.

But they were mine.

I called an attorney named Rebecca Sloan, whose number Gideon had given me. She specialized in complex divorce cases and financial misconduct.

"I want to file," I told her.

"Do you have children?"

"No."

"Joint property?"

"Several accounts, a Manhattan apartment, and investments. I don't know what my husband has moved."

"Then don't confront him yet. Don't sign anything. Don't transfer money. Send me every financial document you can legally access."

I agreed.

Before bed, I opened the safe in Preston's study. I knew the combination because he had never bothered to change it after our wedding.

Inside were property deeds, account statements, and a small envelope marked Equity Transfer — Final Copy.

I opened it.

The agreement listed Preston as the recipient of a controlling block of shares in Hale Meridian's most profitable subsidiary.

But the transfer required one final signature.

Mine.

I read the attached clause.

If Preston's marriage ended before the transfer was completed, the agreement could be challenged because part of the shares had been pledged against marital assets.

He had needed me to remain his wife until the deal closed.

That was why he hadn't filed for divorce.

That was why Cassidy wanted me humiliated at the gala.

They wanted me to leave voluntarily, without making a claim.

I photographed every page and returned everything exactly as I had found it.

Then I noticed a small handwritten note tucked beneath the agreement.

It read:

Get Vivian's signature before the board learns what happened to the original records.

My blood ran cold.