"He Demanded a Divorce on New Year’s Day—I Smiled, Agreed, and Left Him with the Kids."

The suite on the tenth floor of the Drake Hotel looked out over the icy, glittering expanse of Lake Michigan.

The room smelled of fresh white lilies, crisp cotton sheets, and hot Earl Grey tea. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. No unwashed sports uniforms scattered across the mudroom floor. No husband snoring beside me while I lay awake wondering why I felt so hollow inside.

For three days, I slept nine hours a night. I had my hair cut into a chic, shoulder-length bob. I bought two new tailored suits. I met my attorney, Sarah, for lunch at a quiet French bistro where we drank champagne and went over the timeline of Derek’s financial ruin.

"He signed the preliminary custody papers yesterday morning," Sarah told me, cutting into her quiche. "He looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours."

"How is Amber handling motherhood?" I asked, sipping my wine.

Sarah chuckled, a wicked glint in her eyes. "My paralegal spoke to Derek's assistant—well, the temp assistant covering for Amber while Amber takes her 'personal leave.' Apparently, Amber threw a massive fit at the house on Tuesday night because Tyler refused to eat the takeout sushi she ordered and Sophia locked herself in the bathroom crying for you."

I felt a small, natural sting in my heart for my children, but I wasn't worried. I talked to Tyler and Sophia twice a day on their personal iPads. I had told them I was on a mandatory business trip for a few days to prepare my new apartment, and they knew I loved them beyond measure. I was building a pristine, secure future for them—one free from the toxic lies of their father’s home.

On Thursday morning, the phone on my bedside table rang.

I picked it up on the fourth chime. "Hello, Derek."

A heavy, ragged breath came through the speaker. "Naomi... where are you?"

"I'm busy, Derek," I said calmly, looking at my freshly manicured nails. "Is there something wrong with the children? Sarah said you signed the temporary custody order."

"The children are fine!" he yelled, his voice sounding frayed, strained, and close to cracking. "No, actually, they're not fine! Sophia won't stop crying because Amber accidentally washed her favorite velvet dress in hot water and shrank it to the size of a doll shirt! And Tyler threw a baseball through the living room window yesterday!"

"Accidents happen," I said mildly. "Amber will learn. Parenting requires patience, Derek."

"Naomi, please!" he begged, dropping the angry facade entirely. "Come home. Just come home for a few days so we can organize this! I can't run the firm and do this at the same time! Amber doesn't know how to cook, she doesn't know how to run the dishwasher, and she's screaming at me because I won't take her to Aspen next week!"

"Derek," I said softly, my tone dripping with sweet, lethal sympathy. "You wanted a new life. You told me over French toast that I was holding you back from your true potential. This is your potential. Embrace it."

"I made a mistake!" he stammered, his voice breaking. "Okay?! Is that what you want to hear?! I made a massive, stupid mistake! Amber isn't... she isn't who I thought she was!"

"Oh, Derek," I sighed softly into the receiver. "You have no idea how right you are."

"What does that mean?" he asked, sudden suspicion entering his tone. "What do you mean by that?"

"Check your corporate bank account, Derek," I said, my voice dropping its pleasant rhythm, becoming dead cold. "Check the vendor disbursements for Vanguard Media LLC and Aura Design Group over the last six months. Then call me back."

I hung up the phone before he could reply.

I set the receiver down, picked up my tea, and looked out at the white waves breaking against the icy shoreline of the lake.

The trap had sprung.

For six months, Amber had been funneling money into those two shell companies. She had planned to convince Derek to give her a massive lump-sum severance package when they eventually went public with their relationship, or simply vanish with the cash if things went wrong.

She didn't know that three weeks ago, my forensic accountant had discreetly frozen those accounts by filing a fraud alert with the State Attorney General’s financial crimes division—using my legal standing as a co-owner of Romano & Ashford Design.

Amber couldn't access a single dollar of the seven hundred and fifty thousand she had stolen.

And within ten minutes, Derek was going to realize that his young, glamorous mistress wasn't an innocent girl who fell in love with his brilliant mind.

She was a predator who had stripped him to the bone.