The helpless orphan named Ava Parker died in that room.
Richard Whitmore’s daughter woke up.
I didn’t run. Running would let Nathaniel use those forged papers against me. I had to destroy him from inside his own house.
For twenty-one days, I became quiet. Softer. More obedient. A defeated wife.
And I recorded everything.
Tiny cameras. Hidden microphones. Secure servers. Every threat. Every insult. Every plan.
So now, as Nathaniel stood over me in the foyer, he thought he was punishing a helpless wife.
He didn’t know the silver wall clock behind his head was streaming live video and audio to my father’s legal team in Chicago.
Nathaniel grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet.
“You are going upstairs,” he hissed. “You are fixing your makeup. Tomorrow night, you will stand beside me at that gala and smile like the luckiest woman alive. Do you understand?”
I looked toward the heavy front doors.
