“Eat Our Leftovers,” My Sister-in-Law Sneered Before Throwing Scalding Soup in My Face While My Mother-in-Law Laughed—So I Slapped Her, Made One Phone Call, and Said, “Let’s See Who Sleeps on the Street Tonight”...

By six o'clock, the house was silent.

I sat on the edge of my bed, a fresh burn dressing taped to my chest, sipping a glass of expensive cabernet. The heavy oak doors of the mansion had clicked shut thirty minutes earlier.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was Natalie Pierce, my attorney.

"The accounts are frozen, Morgan," Natalie said, her voice crisp and entirely devoid of sympathy for the Mercers. "The holding company has formally withdrawn all liquid operational capital from Grant’s firm. If he wants to make payroll on Friday, he’s going to have to liquidate assets."

"Good," I whispered.

"Are we proceeding with the criminal charges against the mother and sister?"

"Draft the paperwork," I said. "But hold off on filing. I want them to feel the panic first."

I hung up and walked out onto the second-floor balcony overlooking the grand driveway.

The black Range Rover was gone. I had allowed them to take it for the night simply because I didn't want the hassle of coordinating a tow truck. By tomorrow morning, the GPS kill switch would activate, and the vehicle would be reclaimed.

Grant had left with them.

He hadn't knocked on my door. He hadn't begged for forgiveness. Faced with the choice between a wife he had wronged and a family that had ruined him, he had chosen the path of least resistance. He chose the bloodline.