“The gardens do not tend themselves.”

“You used my family’s charity money to pay for your gardeners?” I asked, a hot wave of anger washing over me.

“We are Caldwells,” Marjorie said, turning her head slowly to look at me.

“We have an image to maintain in this county.”

“You are not Caldwells by blood,” I spat back. “You married into a name, and your son married into my money.”

“And he spent it well,” Julian added, scrolling further down the document on his own phone.

“Evelyn, look at these specific transactions from last spring.”

He pointed to a line item of forty-five thousand dollars.

The memo read: *Private Jeweler, Boston.*

My heart stopped.

“The ring,” I whispered.

“The ruby ring Sloane wore to church on Sunday,” Julian confirmed.

“He bought it with your grandmother’s own trust money.”

I touched my bare ring finger, the skin still pale where my wedding band used to sit.

He had stolen my grandmother’s heirloom, given it to his mistress, and used my family’s charitable funds to pay for the appraisal and restoration of the piece.