I kept my eyes locked on my husband, refusing to let him see the toll the confrontation was taking on me.

“You have no leverage here,” I told him, my voice echoing in the quiet room.

“You cannot touch her education, and you cannot touch me.”

Preston’s chest rose and fell rapidly under his bespoke charcoal suit jacket.

He looked at the document, then crumpled the corner of it in his fist.

“You think you’re clever, Claire,” he hissed, his teeth bared.

“You think this changes the narrative.”

From the doorway, a sharp, rhythmic tap of heels sounded on the parquet floor.

Samantha Mercer walked into the room, her phone pressed to her ear and her eyes scanning the scene.

She paused, taking in my defensive stance and Preston’s crumpled posture with her usual cold, analytical gaze.

Samantha lowered her phone and slipped it into the pocket of her tailored white trench coat.

“We have a problem,” she said, her voice clipped and professional.

“The board members are already calling about the frozen accounts.”

Preston turned to her, his jaw tight.