I never told my mother-in-law that the “poor countryside girl” she tried to pay off to leave her son was actually the daughter of a powerful businessman. She threw a check for $5,000 in my face at the family dinner, laughing, “Take this and disappear. My son needs a wife with connections, not a charity case.”

“Blackwood?” he finally rasped, the name catching in his throat. “You’re… you’re that Blackwood?”

I rose slowly, deliberately. My chair scraped the hardwood—a harsh sound that made Mark flinch as if I’d struck him.

“Yes, Arthur,” I said into the phone, eyes locked on Victoria’s stricken face. “Execute the cancellation immediately. And Arthur—tell Daddy I’m coming home. I’ll be there by tomorrow evening.”

“Of course, Miss Blackwood. I’ll make arrangements. Have a pleasant evening.”

I ended the call.

The room stayed frozen except for Victoria’s shallow, frantic breathing. I lifted the vinaigrette-soaked check with two fingers, holding it like it was contaminated. I raised it to the chandelier, studying it with exaggerated curiosity.

“Five thousand dollars,” I said conversationally. “Victoria, my father spends more than this on horse feed every week. Sometimes twice, depending on the season.”

I tore the check down the middle. Riiip.

The sound was ridiculously loud.

Then I tore it again. And again. And again—until it became nothing but confetti.