She’d been auditioning replacements for years. Veronica, apparently, had the role.

My lawyer, Mr. Peterson, looked like a man who’d slept in his car—nervous, papers trembling. Across the aisle, Benjamin’s team was a glossy wall of confidence. They had binders, bullet points, and a plan to paint me as a pampered nonentity: no job, no assets, no value. The judge, Hawkins—steel eyes, steady voice—listened without flinching.

“Your Honor,” Benjamin’s lead attorney began, “my client has been more than generous. Mrs. Foster lacks meaningful work history, holds no independent assets, and contributed nothing to the household income. A modest monthly allowance is fair.”

I could have laughed. No work? I’d managed his calendar, hosted his business dinners, ran a house that doubled as a