On my first night inside the $4.8 million Malibu beach house I bought with my own money, my mother-in-law called and said, “We’re moving in tomorrow, Marcus said it’s fine, and if you don’t like it, you can find somewhere else.”

Eleanor stood frozen on stage, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Josephine,” Victoria looked directly at me. “Would you join me on stage?”

I rose from the head table and walked past Eleanor, who hadn’t moved from her spot. The audience erupted in applause. Genuine recognition from people who understood what an $8.5 million contract meant.

“This contract,” Victoria announced, “represents the highest consulting fee in Meridian’s history, because true value cannot be hidden or diminished, no matter how hard some might try.”

Marcus had gone completely white. His phone was buzzing frantically, probably his business partners realizing his wife was worth more than his entire company.

Eleanor finally found her voice, but the microphone was still on.

“That’s impossible. She’s just a—she’s nobody.”

The entire ballroom heard it. The live stream audience heard it. The FBI agents monitoring the feed heard it.