new luxury cars, and flaunted their wealth, entirely funded by the corporate coffers of the family business. They believed the iron-clad prenuptial agreement I had signed—a document drafted by Howard, my father-in-law, designed to leave me destitute—had perfectly protected their hoarding of the family fortune upon Terrence’s death.
They didn’t know that every single Tuesday morning for the last twenty-four weeks, I had not been working in a hospital. I had been sitting in the sleek, glass-walled conference room of Vance & Associates, the most ruthless and prestigious corporate law firm on the East Coast, quietly and methodically reviewing every single financial statement, offshore account, and shipping manifest the Washington Empire possessed.
The time for mourning was over. The time for execution had arrived.
It was a crisp Friday evening in late autumn. The entrance to the Grand Plaza Hotel in downtown Manhattan was a chaotic symphony of wealth and
