“I don’t,” I agreed, walking forward and taking the chair opposite him without waiting to be invited. “But my husband is Steven Condan, CEO of Apex Tech. Current estimated net worth around fifty million, if the business magazines in the grocery aisle are to be believed.”
His tapping slowed fractionally.
“He built the company using my dowry,” I continued, sliding the folder onto his desk. “While pretending to be an impoverished clerk for eight years. I have proof of the initial funding. Proof of the deception. Medical documentation of physical assault. And, as of last night, proof of adultery.”
I opened the folder and spread the contents out like a hand of cards in a game where I’d finally learned the rules.
Photocopies of the bank transfer from my dowry card to his fledgling account. The hospital report. And on top, my phone, already open to the photo I’d received the night before.
It had come from an unknown number, the sender probably intending to twist the knife.
Steven, asleep in a hotel bed, bare shoulders visible. Genevieve pressed against his chest, smiling at the camera and holding up a peace sign. The bedsheets were white, the lighting forgiving, the smugness unmistakable.