The next morning, Alexander made me breakfast.

He always made breakfast when he felt guilty. French toast with powdered sugar, fresh strawberries, orange juice in the crystal glasses we'd received as wedding gifts.

"You look tired," he said, studying my face with the concerned expression he'd perfected over three years of lying. "Are you sleeping okay? Should I call Dr. Peters?"

"I'm fine." I smiled, cutting my toast into precise squares. "Just the baby keeping me up."

At the mention of the baby, something flickered across his face. It was fast—barely a shadow—but I caught it now that I knew what to look for.

Discomfort. Calculation. The micro-expression of a man running numbers in his head.

"Actually," he said, pouring himself coffee, "Isabelle called this morning. She's hosting a press event for her new collection next week. She asked if we'd attend."

The audacity nearly made me choke on my strawberry.

"Of course," I said warmly. "I'd love to support her."

He looked relieved. "Great. She'll be happy to hear that."

I bet she would.

After Alexander left for work, I drove to my grandmother's estate on the outskirts of the city. The Ashford mansion sat on twelve acres of manicured grounds, a monument to what women could build when men underestimated them.

Grandmother's lawyer, Margaret Chen, was already waiting in the study. She was a small woman with silver-streaked hair and the reputation of a shark in a designer suit.

"I reviewed the documents you photographed last night," Margaret said, spreading papers across the mahogany desk. "Your husband has been systematically embezzling from your trust fund for approximately thirty-six months."

"Can he do that?" I asked. "Legally?"

"No. The trust was structured with you as sole beneficiary. He was added as a co-signatory for convenience when you were hospitalized during your first trimester—remember when you had severe complications?"

I remembered. I'd been bedridden for weeks, terrified of losing the baby. Alexander had handled everything—bills, paperwork, logistics. I'd been so grateful.

"He used that access window to redirect funds. The shell company, Lumière Holdings, is registered under a proxy name, but the beneficial owner traces back to Isabelle Ashford."

My own sister. My twin. The person who shared my face but apparently none of my conscience.

"And the paternity test?" I asked.

Margaret's expression hardened. "Completely fabricated. The lab listed on the document doesn't perform prenatal paternity testing. It's a forgery—a convincing one, but a forgery. We can prove it easily with a legitimate test."

"He's planning to use it in a divorce filing," I said. It wasn't a question.

"Almost certainly. The narrative would be: unfaithful wife, questionable paternity, grounds for full asset separation. He'd walk away with the house, the investments, and public sympathy. You'd be left with nothing and a reputation in ruins."

Grandmother, who had been listening silently from her wingback chair, finally spoke. Her voice was quiet but carried the weight of decades of hard-won power.

"Sera, your mother left you that money because she wanted you protected. I will not watch another man destroy what the women in this family built."

She turned to Margaret. "How long do we need?"

"Three weeks to build an airtight case. Forensic accounting, digital evidence preservation, witness depositions. If we move carefully, he won't see it coming until it's too late."

"Then we move carefully," Grandmother said.

I placed my hand on my belly, feeling my daughter shift.

"Three weeks," I agreed. "But I need something else."

Margaret raised an eyebrow.

"I want to know everything about Lumière Holdings. Every transaction, every investor meeting, every conversation between Alexander and Isabelle."

I paused, a plan forming.

"And I want an invitation to Isabelle's press event next week. Front row."

If they wanted to play a game with my life, I would let them perform on their stage.

But the finale would be mine.