His mistress sent me a bill for the dress she wore to steal my husband.

The Donald W. Wyatt Detention Facility in Central Falls, Rhode Island, was a fortress of concrete, coiled razor wire, and industrial floodlights.

It was where federal defendants were held while awaiting trial—a place deliberately designed to strip away every shred of dignity, status, and luxury that men like Grant Mercer had spent their entire lives accumulating.

The visiting room was separated by thick panels of scratch-resistant plexiglass. The air was cold, smelling of bleach, cheap tobacco, and industrial disinfectant.

I sat on a bolted metal stool on the civilian side of the glass. I wore a charcoal cashmere sweater and black slacks. No jewelry. No makeup. Just my presence.

The heavy steel door on the prisoner side buzzed and clicked open.

Grant was escorted in by two correctional officers.

In forty-eight hours, the transformation was staggering. Grant had always been a man obsessed with his appearance—his hair had been cut every ten days by a stylist on Newbury Street, his skin maintained with expensive treatments, his suits tailored in Savile Row.

Now, he wore an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit that smelled of institutional laundry. His hair was greasy and matted against his forehead. His face was gray, hollowed out by two nights of sleepless terror on a suicide-watch cot. His hands shook violently as he reached for the black plastic telephone receiver on his side of the partition.

I picked up the receiver on my side and held it to my ear.

"Evie," he gasped, pressing his face close to the scratched glass. His breath fogged the plastic. "Evie, thank God. Thank God you came. You have to get me out of here. You have to talk to Sterling. You have to put up the Commonwealth brownstone for my bond."

"The Commonwealth brownstone is owned by my family trust, Grant," I said, my voice level, steady, and entirely devoid of emotion. "It cannot be pledged for criminal bond. And even if it could, I wouldn't spend a single nickel to keep you out of the rain."

Grant recoiled as if I had slapped him through the glass. "Evie... why are you being like this? I know what it looked like with Brielle. I know! It was an infatuation, it was a mistake! Men make mistakes, Evie! You were distant, you were always wrapped up in your family’s legacy, you made me feel small—"

"I made you feel small?" I interrupted, a faint, cold smile touching my lips. "Grant, I gave you your career. I funded your research when the federal grants fell through. I introduced you to every donor who ever wrote a check with six zeroes. I let you pretend you built that pavilion so you could walk into ballrooms and feel like a king."

"And you never let me forget it!" he snarled, his sudden flare of rage breaking through his panic. "Every time we walked into that hospital, I saw your grandfather's portrait! Every time I signed a chart, I knew the building belonged to your mother! You suffocated me, Evelyn! Brielle made me feel like a man!"

"Brielle handed the FBI the recording of you and Marcus at the Four Seasons," I said quietly.

Grant stopped. The rage drained from his face so fast it was as if someone had pulled a plug at the base of his skull. His eyes went wide, wild with horror. "What?"

"She gave them the drive, Grant," I continued, watching his soul unravel through the plexiglass. "She gave them the timestamps. And Thomas Reed found your black ledger in the wine cellar. We found the indemnity agreement with Marcus. We found the Cayman accounts, the Nevis shell companies, and the receipts for the Cartier diamonds."

Grant’s hand began to shake so violently he could barely hold the telephone receiver against his ear. "The ledger... you found the ledger?"

"Marcus is in federal custody two corridors down from you," I said. "He broke into the house trying to get it. He failed. The U.S. Attorney is presenting the superseding indictment to the grand jury on Monday morning. Forty-two counts, Grant. Wire fraud, conspiracy to commit money laundering, tax evasion, and theft from an organization receiving federal funds."

"No..." Grant whimpered, his forehead pressing against the cold glass. "No, no, no... Sterling said he could get me a plea deal. He said five years at a minimum-security camp—"

"Sterling withdrew as your counsel two hours ago," I informed him coldly. "When the federal judge froze the retainer wired from Beacon Horizon, Sterling realized he wasn't going to get paid. The court is appointing a public defender to your case this afternoon."

A strangled, high-pitched sob broke from Grant’s throat. A public defender. For the Chief of Pediatric Surgery. For the man who had worn bespoke tuxedos and sipped vintage champagne at the Copley Meridian.

"Evie," he wept, tears running freely down his grimy cheeks, leaving clean streaks through the stubble on his jaw. "Please. I am your husband. We stood before God, Evie. For better or for worse. You promised."

"I promised to love a man of honor, Grant," I said softly, leaning closer to the glass so he could see the absolute finality in my eyes. "You are not a man. You are a parasite who stole medicine from dying children so you could buy silk dresses for a woman who gave you up to the FBI for a misdemeanor plea."

"I will die in here," he whispered, his voice broken, ruined. "Look at me, Evie. I won't survive this."

"You won't die, Grant," I told him, my tone chillingly serene. "You'll survive. You will wake up every single morning at five o'clock on a thin foam mattress. You will clean cafeteria trays. You will wear that orange jumpsuit until your hair turns completely white. And every single time you look at the concrete wall of your cell, you will remember the night you stood on that stage at the Copley Meridian and tried to humiliate me."

I reached out and slowly lowered the black receiver back into its metal cradle.

Grant lunged forward, slamming his fists against the plexiglass, shouting words I couldn't hear through the soundproof barrier.

"Evie! Evie! Don't leave me! Evie!"

The two correctional officers grabbed his shoulders, twisting his arms behind his back, forcing him down against the concrete floor with practiced efficiency.