Richard shaved his wife’s head on their tenth anniversary

The air in the study felt thin enough to crack.

I didn't step away from the desk. I didn't hide the broken lock on his drawer. I kept my chin level, meeting his pale blue eyes with a flat, terrifying calm that I didn't know I possessed until this exact second.

"I was looking for my passport," I said, my voice smooth as silk over iron. "I thought we might take that trip to Como you mentioned last week."

Richard’s gaze flicked down to the forced drawer, then back up to my bare, unevenly shaved scalp. The smugness on his face faltered for a fraction of a second—just long enough for a faint shadow of suspicion to surface.

"Your passport is in the safe, Claire," he said, stepping into the room. He didn't sound angry; he sounded like a schoolmaster indulging a difficult child. "And we aren't going to Como. Not yet. We have responsibilities to handle first. Tonight is about family."

"Family," I repeated, letting the word hang between us like a suspended blade.

"Yes," he said, closing the distance between us until he stood barely two feet away. He reached out, his manicured fingers rising toward my head.

Every instinct in my body screamed to break his wrist, to drive the silver letter opener on the desk into his shoulder. Instead, I stood motionless, letting his knuckles brush against the raw, uneven stubble near my right ear.

"You really don't look half bad, you know," he murmured, his voice dipping into that soft, toxic patronizing tone he had perfected over ten years. "It emphasizes your cheekbones. But people are going to talk, Claire. They’re going to whisper about how Arthur's death broke you. You have to be strong tonight. When Mathilde brings the papers during the toast, you sign them quickly, smile for the cameras, and let me carry the weight."

"The weight," I whispered, looking up into his face.

"Yes," he smiled, leaning down to press a cool kiss to my bare forehead. "Let me protect you from yourself."

He pulled back, checked his platinum watch, and adjusted his cuffs. "The caterers arrive at four. The hair stylist I hired to fit your turban will be here at five. Don't embarrass me, Claire. Wear the emerald dress."

"The emerald dress," I agreed. "The one Dad bought me for our fifth anniversary."

"Exactly," Richard said, already turning his back on me as he walked toward the door. "Sentimentality plays well in the room."

He walked out, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the hardwood of the hallway until the master bedroom door clicked shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, I picked up my phone and dialed Mathilde.

"Mathilde," I said, before she could even greet me. "Call Judge Evelyn Harrison. Tell her Arthur Prescott's daughter needs an emergency ex-parte chancery hearing at two o'clock this afternoon. And tell her to unseal the criminal wiretap authorization we prepared last month."

Mathilde’s breath hitched. "Claire... did you find the contract?"

"I have the surrogacy papers," I replied, pulling the Swiss documents from my waistband. "I have the transfer routing numbers. And I have Richard's itinerary for a psychiatric hold."

"My God," Mathilde whispered. "He was going to lock you up."

"He was going to try," I said, looking at my reflection in the dark glass of the bookcase.