If Maxwell couldn't see me or our daughter as his family, he could play the lovesick martyr on his own.
...
When I pushed open the study door, Maxwell was locking a thick stack of documents into the safe.
I was faster. My hand shot out, blocking the door before it closed, and I yanked the papers free.
Black ink on white paper. Crystal clear.
Thirty percent of Gilbert Group shares. Three luxury apartments in Cloudvale Bay. All transferred to Antonia Henson, free of charge.
Attached at the bottom was a bone-marrow match donation consent form, waiting for my signature.
I slammed the documents onto the mahogany desk so hard the pen holder rattled, and fixed Maxwell with an ice-cold stare.
"Maxwell Gilbert, have you lost your mind, or did you just sell your conscience wholesale?"
"Handing over our marital assets to fill that bottomless pit is one thing. Now you want to drain my bone marrow too?"
"On what grounds?"
Maxwell's brows knitted tight, his eyes brimming with impatience.
"Amy, do you have to be this selfish?"
"Isabel died in that fire trying to save me. Burned beyond recognition. Nothing left to bury."