The snow in Minneapolis did not fall; it drifted sideways, plastering itself against the glass of my living room.

I watched the white flakes blur the city lights thirty floors below.

The wind howled against the concrete exterior of the building.

On the marble kitchen island, my phone vibrated.

It was a text from Elena Ruiz, my attorney.

“The black card is officially dead,” the message read.

I picked up the phone, my fingers cold against the glass screen.

“Thank you, Elena,” I typed back. “Is the account completely frozen?”

“Yes,” she replied immediately. “Patricia is cut off. Expect a storm.”

For five years, that credit card had funded Patricia Voss’s entire life.

It paid for her trips to Paris, her Aspen ski chalets, and her designer wardrobes.

It was my money, earned from the hard exit of my logistics software company.

My marriage to her son, Harrison, was over, signed and sealed three weeks ago.

Yet Patricia had still managed to charge twenty thousand dollars to my account just yesterday.

I set the phone down and took a sip of lukewarm coffee.

The silence in the penthouse was thick and unfamiliar.

I had lived here alone for a month, trying to wash the scent of Harrison’s expensive cologne from the hallways.

Then, the private elevator at the end of the foyer chimed.

My chest tightened.

Only three people had the bypass code for that elevator.

I stood up slowly, sliding my phone into my pocket.

The heavy brass doors slid open.

Patricia Voss stepped out first, her mink coat dusted with melting snow.

Her face was tight, her red lipstick slightly smudged at the corners of her mouth.

Behind her came Harrison.

He looked uncharacteristically disheveled, his charcoal wool coat unbuttoned and his tie crooked.

“Where is she?” Patricia demanded, her voice cutting through the quiet room.

She did not see me standing in the shadow of the kitchen pillar.

“Mother, calm down,” Harrison muttered, his hand trembling as he ran it through his wet hair.

“Calm down?” Patricia turned on him, her eyes wide with rage. “She cut off the card at the register in Saks, Harrison. I had to leave three thousand dollars worth of cosmetics on the counter.”