“I have the reports from your therapist,” he said. “The ones detailing your deep depression.”

“You bought those,” I said.

“I compensated her for her professional opinion,” he said. “And the opinion is quite clear.”

He leaned in close, his breath smelling of mint and espresso.

“You are unstable, Emily,” he whispered. “You’ve been unstable since the miscarriage.”

I clenched my fists behind my back to keep them from shaking.

“You wouldn’t dare release that,” I said.

“I won’t have to,” he said. “A leak to the *Tribune* is very easy to arrange.”

He walked back toward the sculpture, his eyes scanning the rough iron.

“Think about the headlines,” he said. “The tragic breakdown of Emily Hayes.”

“My name is Emily Carter,” I said.

“Not on the deed to our home,” he said. “Not on the bank accounts.”

He patted the top of the sculpture.

“And certainly not on the trust funds you think you still control,” he added.

I took a slow breath, forcing my voice to remain soft, almost defeated.

“Why are you doing this, Daniel?” I asked.

“To protect my interests,” he said.