I unlocked the door and stepped aside. Adrian entered first, followed by Beatrice, who immediately pulled off her gloves as though every inch of the marble-floored house already belonged to her. “Pack your things,” she ordered. “I meant what I said on the phone.” I didn’t argue. Instead, I walked to the coffee table, lifted the first document from Elena’s carefully prepared stack, and handed it directly to Adrian.

It was a report from my company’s CFO. For eleven months, money had quietly been leaving my business account in small payments to a vendor called B.H. Interiors. Adrian frowned and insisted he’d never heard of the company. But Gerald, still standing near the doorway, suddenly looked sick. He wasn’t staring at the report. His eyes were fixed on his wife. “Beatrice,” he whispered, “please tell me that isn’t your account.” She said nothing—and her silence told us everything.

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