On my wedding night, I crawled under the bed, my veil still caught in my hair, giggling – one last silly prank before I became a wife. The door cre:aked. My husband’s voice came through, warm… then my mother-in-law’s voice cut through like ice. “Have you given it to her yet?” she hissed.

Then I invited suspicion to dinner and watched it eat.

The champagne had gone into a hidden sample vial tucked inside my bouquet. The cameras were recording. My phone, hidden inside the hollow heel of my wedding shoe, was livestreaming audio to my lawyer.

Daniel’s mother leaned close to my face.

“Stupid girl,” she whispered. “Your father should have taught you not to trust hungry people.”

That almost broke me.

Because my father had taught me exactly that.

Daniel forged my name once. Twice. Five times. His mother photographed the pages and sent them to someone.

“By tomorrow afternoon, Hale Medical belongs to us,” Daniel said.

“To you,” she corrected sharply. “But don’t forget who put you there.”

He laughed. “Of course, Mother.”

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