I unlocked the door and stepped back. Adrian pushed inside first, then Beatrice, already peeling off her gloves like she owned every inch of the marble floor. “Pack your things,” she said. “I meant what I said on the phone.” I didn’t move. I simply walked to the coffee table, picked up the top document from Elena’s stack, and handed it to Adrian.

It was a bank report from my CFO. For eleven months, someone had been sending small payments from my company account to a vendor called B.H. Interiors. Adrian frowned and began to say he’d never heard of it. Then Gerald, still standing in the doorway, made a sound like the air had been knocked out of him. He wasn’t looking at the paper. He was looking at his wife. “Beatrice,” he said quietly. “Please tell me that isn’t your account.”