My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

It was an email from Naomi with a court summons for nine o’clock the next morning.

The Harrows were moving fast.

The conference room at Naomi’s office the next morning was cold and smelled of stale filter coffee.

Naomi sat at the glass table, surrounded by thick binders and neat stacks of paper.

Her grey suit was immaculate, her silver hair pulled back into a tight, professional bun.

“Conrad’s team filed the emergency motion at midnight,” Naomi said, sliding a manila folder toward me.

I sat down, my coat still damp from the morning drizzle.

“They are claiming I signed the prenuptial agreement under false pretenses,” I said, skimming the legalese.

“They are also claiming you are emotionally unstable,” Naomi added, tapping her pen on the table.

“They want a court-ordered psychological evaluation.”

“And they want to freeze my bank accounts.”

“Yes,” Naomi said. “But they made a critical error in their rush.”

The heavy glass doors of the conference room opened.

Conrad Harrow walked in, flanked by his lead counsel, a tall, gaunt man named Richard Vance.