Chapter 2

The next morning, the hospital administrator approached me with a clipboard and a regretful expression. The initial bill was already over a hundred thousand dollars. The experimental surgery Maria needed would be another half a million, payable upfront.

"My husband will handle it," I said, trying to sound confident.

I pulled out my credit card. Declined. I tried another. Declined. A cold dread washed over me. I tried my debit card. Insufficient funds.

I called the bank. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scott," the clerk said, "Mr. Scott has frozen all joint accounts and transferred the balances to a new, private account."

Panic seized me. I rushed back to the ranch, thinking I could sell something, anything. Maria had a safe full of jewelry, heirlooms from the Texas oil boom days. Heavy gold, diamonds, turquoise pieces that were a part of our family's story.

The ranch house felt cold and empty. I went straight to the study and knelt before the heavy steel safe hidden behind a painting. I spun the familiar combination. It clicked open.

It was empty.

Every last piece was gone. The velvet boxes were torn and thrown aside. A hollow sickness filled my stomach.

I stumbled back, my phone buzzing in my pocket. It was a notification from Instagram. A friend had tagged me in a photo.

I opened the app. The picture was of Sabrina Chavez, smiling into the camera at a fancy restaurant. Around her neck was my grandmother's signature necklace-a massive, one-of-a-kind piece of silver and turquoise, unmistakable.

Beneath the photo, Matthew had commented, "Only you deserve the best."

My vision blurred. He hadn't just blackmailed me. He had robbed my helpless grandmother and given her treasures to his mistress. The woman whose grandfather had put her in that hospital bed.

In a fit of rage, I called him. He actually answered.

"What?" he snapped.

"The jewelry, Matthew. You stole my grandmother's jewelry."

He laughed. A cold, dismissive sound. "Finders keepers. You should have been a better wife, Jocelyn. Then maybe you'd have nice things too."

"I'm going to the police."

"Go ahead," he sneered. "Tell them your crazy, senile grandmother misplaced her things and you're trying to frame my assistant. See who they believe. The respected tech CEO, or the hysterical, broke housewife."

He hung up. I was left standing in the ransacked room, utterly alone.