Evan’s face drained of what little color it had left.

The rain tapped heavily against the high windows of the chamber, a steady, rhythmic drumming.

“Claire, please,” he said, his voice cracking.

“I’m offering you the townhouse. That’s worth millions. We can walk away from this quietly.”

“No,” I said.

The word felt heavy and solid in the small room.

“No?” Evan repeated, his voice rising in pitch.

“You’d rather destroy both of us?”

“I’m not destroying anything, Evan,” I said.

“I am simply letting the law do its job.”

“You won’t get a dime if the estate is locked up in probate for the next decade,” he threatened.

“The estate is not locked up,” Lydia said, turning to him.

“The evidence of your fraud is absolute. The court will see to that.”

“I demand a trial, Evan,” I said, looking him dead in the eye.

“I want every single transfer, every bottle of wine, and every lie you told put into the public record.”

He stared at me, his lip trembling with a mixture of fear and rage.

“You’re making a mistake,” he whispered.