“Excellent,” Dominic said softly. “Come to my office tomorrow morning, and write everything immediately while emotional interference remains minimal.”
The following morning, I performed the role of devoted wife with unsettling precision, preparing coffee, adjusting Alexander’s cufflinks, and offering a gentle kiss accompanied by warmth convincing enough to preserve his illusion of control.
“I will be late tonight,” Alexander said smoothly, his expression relaxed, his deception intact.
“Of course,” I replied with effortless sincerity.
When the door closed, my composure sharpened into something colder, clearer, and infinitely more dangerous than visible anger.
Dominic’s glass walled office overlooked Midtown Manhattan, a landscape of ambition, calculation, and polished power dynamics, where he greeted me not with sympathy, but with an open notebook and questions demanding factual clarity rather than emotional narrative.
Helena Strauss, his attorney, arrived swiftly, her demeanor defined by precision, authority, and the unmistakable energy of someone accustomed to dismantling carefully constructed lies.