The next morning, Albany greeted me with pale sunlight and a bitter wind that cut through my coat. I didn’t feel the cold. I felt focused.

Marcus had already arranged everything. A locksmith van was parked discreetly across from the small colonial house I owned — the one I had so generously let Megan “borrow” when she said she needed a fresh start. Two private security officers waited nearby, dressed like ordinary contractors.

At 8:17 a.m., Andrew’s Range Rover pulled into the driveway.

So much for Chicago.

He stepped out first, sunglasses on, phone pressed to his ear. Megan followed slowly, one hand resting theatrically on her stomach. She looked radiant — not sick, not fragile. Just smug.

I stayed inside my car and watched.

Andrew tried the front door.

The key didn’t work.

He frowned and tried again.

Nothing.

Megan said something I couldn’t hear, but her body language shifted from relaxed to irritated.

That was my cue.

I stepped out of the car.

The sound of my heels against the pavement made Andrew turn.

The color drained from his face.

“Isabella?” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”

I tilted my head slightly. “Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing. I thought you were in Chicago.”

Megan’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Andrew recovered quickly — he always did. “I can explain.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” I replied evenly. “But before you start, there are a few updates.”

Right on time, his phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

He glanced down.

Corporate card declined. Account frozen. Trading portfolio under investigation.

His jaw tightened.

“What did you do?” he demanded, the charm gone.

“I protected my company,” I said calmly. “And myself.”

Megan looked between us, panic rising. “Andrew… what’s happening?”

He ignored her. “You can’t just freeze accounts without telling me.”

“I can,” I corrected softly. “They’re in my name.”

Security approached quietly, standing just behind me.

Andrew’s expression shifted from anger to calculation. “Let’s not do this outside,” he said in a low voice. “We’re married.”

“Yes,” I said. “We are. Which makes your second marriage quite inconvenient.”

Megan gasped. “He told you?”

“No,” I said, pulling my phone from my bag. “You did.”

I pressed play.

Their voices filled the quiet street.

My spoiled wife.

We’ve been secretly married for two years.

I’ve been diverting funds.

The laughter.

Andrew lunged forward. “Turn that off!”