“Eight months after divorcing me because I “couldn’t give him a family,”

“Twenty minutes ago.”

“Good.”

Then she looked at the folder.

Her expression changed.

“You read Elias’s final report?”

“Most of it.”

“All of it?”

“No.”

“Then don’t go anywhere yet.”

Naomi closed the hospital-room door.

I sat straighter.

My grandmother, Eleanor Carter, had died three years earlier.

She was the reason I had never been financially dependent on Ryan, despite what his family liked telling people.

Eleanor had started a small medical equipment company from a rented garage in 1983.

By the time I was born, Carter Biomedical owned patents used in hospitals across fourteen countries.

By the time she died, her estate was worth far more than anyone in our family publicly discussed.

She left me two things.

A controlling interest in a family trust.

And a sentence handwritten inside the first page of the trust documents.

Never confuse someone loving your life with someone loving you.

At twenty-nine, I thought that sounded cynical.

At thirty-five, it sounded like prophecy.

During my marriage, Ryan constantly insisted he had no interest in my family money.

His company, Brooks Development Group, was growing.

He wanted to succeed independently.

That was what I believed.

So when he asked me to sign a limited financial power of attorney during my second round of fertility treatment, I didn’t question him.

I was exhausted.

Hormonal.

Grieving.