Chapter 1

To host my husband's widowed sister-in-law and his mother, who had come into town to stay with us, I spent the entire afternoon sweating over a hot stove.

Just as I set down the final dish—a platter of garlic butter shrimp—my husband, Michael, eagerly peeled one and placed it straight onto Amanda’s plate.

Right at that moment, our two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Chloe, tripped in the living room and burst into tears. My hands were covered in cooking oil, so I frantically yelled to Michael, "My hands are messy! Go pick up Chloe, hurry!"

He frowned, holding up his hands. "Mine are covered in butter too. I can't."

With that, he bent his head right back down to keep peeling shrimp for Amanda.

Looking at the pile of shrimp shells on Amanda's plate, the words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them: "Let’s get a divorce."

He stared at me, bewildered. "Are you insane? Over me not picking up the kid?"

I scooped Chloe into my arms. "Yes. Exactly over you not picking up our daughter."

"Abby, please don't be mad," Michael's brother's widow, Amanda, said, pulling a paper towel to dab at her fingers.

"Michael was just being nice and helping me out. Don't fight with him over something so stupid."

My mother-in-law, Martha, sat at the head of the dining table, her face already sour.

"What’s the big deal? Throwing around the word 'divorce' over this?"

"Amanda is a poor widow raising a boy alone. What's wrong with Michael showing some care?"

"As a sister-in-law, you're way too petty!"

"Exactly," Michael backed her up instantly.

"David died so young, leaving Amanda all on her own with Noah. Do you have any idea how hard life has been for her?"

"We all feel terrible for her, but here you are, acting completely jealous."

I ignored them completely, carrying Chloe into the bathroom to wash the grease from my hands.

Seeing me stay silent, Michael followed me inside.

"Babe, what is wrong with you today?"

"My mom barely ever visits, and you have to make everyone miserable?"

"Amanda’s wrist still bothers her from an old injury, so she can't peel shrimp easily. What's the harm in giving her a hand?"

I wiped my hands dry with a towel.

"Your hands work fine for peeling shrimp, but they're useless when your own daughter hits the floor."

"Michael, your brother has been dead for three years. You’ve taken taking care of his widow so far that you've brought her right into our house."

"You even make sure she gets the first bite of the food I broke my back cooking."

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to suppress his temper.

"Can you be reasonable for once?"

"David got hit by that car to save my life! I owe him my life!"

"Looking after Amanda is the least I can do. Stop blowing everything out of proportion!"

The least he could do? He had been repeating those exact words for three straight years.

In the first year, Amanda claimed she was terrified of living alone, so Michael would drive over in the middle of the night just to keep her company.

In the second year, Amanda said she needed a job, so Michael shoved her into an easy, do-nothing position at our agency.

And now, in the third year, Amanda had brazenly walked right through our front door, sitting at my table, eating my food, and enjoying my husband's doting attention.

I stared straight into Michael’s eyes.

"You owed David your life, not Amanda."

"If you really feel like you can never repay him, why don't you go six feet under and keep him company?"

Michael’s expression twisted with anger.

"Abby Hayes! That is vile!"

I picked Chloe back up and turned toward the bedroom.

"Nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Bring your ID and meet me at the county courthouse."

"I am not joking with you."

Michael tried to follow me, but from the hallway came Amanda’s timid, fragile voice.

"Michael... did I upset Abby?"

"Maybe I should just leave..."

Michael immediately turned on his heel and rushed back out.

"Why would you leave? This is my house. You stay and eat."

I slammed the bedroom door shut, cutting off the noise.

Chloe lay resting on my shoulder as I gently patted her back to lull her to sleep.

Once she was sound asleep, I logged into my online banking app. My primary account was linked to the supplementary card I had given Michael.

All these years, I had trusted him blindly and never once audited his spending.

I pulled up the bank statements, scrolling through page after page.

Last month: Chanel boutique, twenty-eight thousand dollars.

The month before: Bulgari, thirty-five thousand dollars.

I had never laid eyes on a single item from those receipts.

And then there was one from last week: an elite private early-learning academy, an annual tuition of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Note: Noah.

My own daughter was enrolled in an ordinary community daycare down the street that cost three grand a semester.

Meanwhile, Amanda’s son was living off my money, attending a private academy that cost one hundred and twenty grand a year.

Fuming, I took screenshots and immediately sent them to my attorney.

[Check and see if Michael has any other real estate or major asset transfers under his name.]

My attorney responded almost instantly.

[Have you made up your mind?]

I typed back:

[I'm done.]

Putting my phone down, I stared into the dark night outside the window, memories of the past few years flooding my mind.

Michael and I were college sweethearts. After graduation, I founded our translation and localization agency, building it from the ground up through sheer grit and long nights.

When Michael struggled to find his footing, my heart ached for him. I brought him into my firm and handed him the title of Vice President.

I genuinely believed we were partners building an empire together.

Instead, it proved the old truth: rescue a stray, and it bites the hand that feeds it.

He used my hard-earned resources to gain a foothold, only to turn around and blow my wealth on his so-called brotherly moral obligation.

His mother was even more brazen, taking every single holiday to drop passive-aggressive remarks:

"Abby, your body couldn't even give us a boy. What good is a daughter? Noah is the only real heir to the Hayes bloodline."

"All the money you make—who else is it going to go to besides Noah? A girl just marries out into someone else's family anyway. Chloe won't even carry the name, so you’d better keep your priorities straight."

Back then, I brushed it off as an old woman’s rambling nonsense.

Looking at the mountain of fraudulent transactions now, I finally understood—she wasn't just talking. They had been actively doing it.

Laughter drifted in from the living room.

Martha was cooing over Noah, and Michael was chiming in with loud chuckles.

"Noah is so smart! You're going to do big things when you grow up, buddy! A true Hayes man through and through!"

Leaning against the bedroom door, listening to their happy little family dynamic, a wave of bitter irony washed over me.

I bought this four-bedroom house. I cooked that entire meal. Yet here I was, locked in my own bedroom like an outsider.

I looked down at Chloe’s peaceful, sleeping face and gently brushed away the dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

It’s okay, baby. Mommy is going to take back everything that belongs to us, piece by piece.