My husband walked into my Businesswoman of the Year ceremony in Chicago with his mistress

The visitation room of the federal detention facility smelled of industrial bleach and stale despair. I sat on a hard stainless-steel stool, separated from the prisoner's booth by two inches of scratch-resistant ballistic acrylic.

When the heavy steel door on the other side clicked open, Daniel stepped through.

He looked thinner, his once-flawless designer jawline shadowed by rough, uneven stubble. The bright orange jumpsuit was wrinkled, a far cry from the bespoke Italian wool suits I had personally purchased for him during our seven years of marriage.

Yet, when he saw me, his lips curled into that familiar, arrogant sneer that once made my stomach flutter—and now only made my pulse run cold with contempt.

Daniel picked up the black telephone receiver on his side. I waited two full beats before lifting mine to my ear.

"You look stunning, Elise," he drawled, his voice tinny through the wire. "Emerald was always your color. Though I see you left the white cashmere coat at home."

"Get to the point, Daniel," I said evenly. "You have four minutes before I walk out that door and let the guards put the chains back on your ankles."

Daniel laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "Still so cold. Still the ruthless ice queen. You thought you won, didn't you? You took my money, you took my reputation, you put me in this cage, and you crawled straight into Julian Vance's bed."

"I took back what was mine," I said without flinching. "You committed federal bank fraud and corporate embezzlement. The judge put you here. Not me."

"My uncle Marcus will dismantle everything you love," Daniel whispered, pressing his face closer to the glass. His eyes were bloodshot, burning with manic vindication. "You think you're smart because you caught me and Vanessa? Vanessa was a distraction, Elise. An appetizer. Marcus controls eighty billion dollars across three sovereign funds. He already bought your mother's brooch at a private auction in Geneva. And next week, he buys Whitmore Global."

"Your uncle didn't give a damn about you when you were begging on your knees during the trial," I replied coldly. "Why do you think you matter to him now?"

"I don't matter to him," Daniel spat, his smirk twisting into pure venom. "Winning matters to him. Crushing anyone who defies him matters to him. And Vanessa? She’s staying in his penthouse on Fifth Avenue right now. She’s his new personal guest. How does it feel knowing the girl who stole your husband is now living in a palace while you're scrambling to keep your father's pathetic little company alive?"

I didn't blink. I didn't raise my voice. I leaned in slowly until my breath fogged the cold glass.

"Tell your uncle that if he wants a war with Elise Whitmore, he should bring more than five million dollars and a washed-up mistress," I said softly. "Because when I burn his empire to the ground, Daniel, you won't even have a window to watch the smoke."