The slap came so hard that for one strange second, I thought the crystal chandelier above the dining table had shattered. My head snapped to the side.

The annual Boston Real Estate Gala was the social equivalent of a shark tank.

This year, it was held at the Harbor Hotel, a venue I had personally scouted for the event three years ago. Walking into the grand ballroom wearing a stunning backless emerald gown, I felt the immediate shift in the room’s atmosphere.

Whispers followed me like a physical wake.

I was officially the scandal of the season—the scorned wife who had staged a corporate coup.

I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and caught sight of Arthur in the corner, nodding approvingly at my entrance. But my eyes quickly locked onto a far more infuriating sight.

Evan and Sloane.

They were standing near the center ice sculpture, holding court with a group of mid-level investors. Sloane was wearing a dress that looked suspiciously like the one I had worn to last year's gala.

I took a sip of my drink and walked straight toward them.

“Good evening, Evan,” I said smoothly, cutting off whatever lie he was telling the investors.

Evan stiffened, his face flushing.

“Claire. We’re in the middle of a private conversation.”

“Nothing is private in this room, Evan,” I smiled at the investors, who looked simultaneously horrified and desperate for the gossip. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” Evan sneered. “For what?”

“For emptying the joint checking account on Tuesday. It made filing the forensic audit with the IRS so much simpler. The feds love a clean paper trail when investigating hidden assets.”

The investors’ eyes widened collectively. One of them actually choked on his drink.

“You called the IRS?” Evan hissed, stepping forward, his corporate mask slipping completely.

“You tried to leave me with nothing, Evan. Did you think I wouldn’t look at where the money went?” I turned my gaze to Sloane, who was looking entirely too pale. “And it’s fascinating where it went, Sloane. Seven massive wire transfers to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands over the last ten months.”

Sloane swallowed hard, her hand dropping from Evan’s arm.

“That’s… that’s corporate consulting fees,” she stammered.

“Consulting for what?” I asked loudly enough for the neighboring groups to hear. “A PR firm? Because considering you slapped a board member’s wife at a family dinner, your public relations skills are severely lacking.”

A few people actually laughed.

Evan grabbed Sloane’s arm and practically dragged her toward the exit, his face purple with rage.