For the first time that day, my throat tightened.
I had not cried when Ryan slapped me. I had not cried in the car. I had not cried while sending evidence that shattered a billion-dollar illusion.
But hearing my father’s name almost broke me.
“He taught me not to sign anything I hadn’t read twice,” I said.
“And you read the Harringtons better than they read you.
After the call ended, I sat alone in my office while night pressed against the windows. Manhattan glowed below me, indifferent and alive. Somewhere across the city, Ryan was probably pacing, blaming me, blaming his mother, blaming pressure, blaming everyone except himself.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, the number was unknown.
You think you won. You’ll be alone forever.
I looked at the message.
Once, that threat might have reached the old wound inside me. The orphaned daughter. The woman who had worked too hard, trusted too little, and still hoped marriage might feel like belonging.
