Men who had laughed at Richard’s jokes ten minutes earlier now stepped away from him as if he carried disease.
Adrian reached for me. “Mara, baby, listen—”
I stepped back.
“Do not call me baby,” I said. “You lost that right with your hand.”
For the first time since I had married him, Adrian Vale looked small.
Part 3
The police arrived before dessert had time to melt.
No one clapped. No one spoke. Cameras flickered like fireflies as officers crossed the marble floor toward the head table.
Richard tried dignity first.
“This is a misunderstanding,” he said, offering the smile he used on judges, bankers, and magazine covers.
The lead detective didn’t smile back. “Richard Vale, you need to come with us.”
“For what?”
“Fraud. Identity theft. Conspiracy. Evidence tampering.”
Richard’s eyes cut to me, filled with pure hatred. “You planned this.”
“No,” I said. “You did. I documented it.”
Adrian lunged toward my father. “You ruined us!”
My father didn’t move. “No, son. I financed you. You ruined yourself.”
The word son struck like a blade.
Adrian turned to me, panic breaking through his arrogance. “Mara, tell them this is a mistake. Tell them you were angry. We can fix this.”
I looked at the man I had once loved.
I remembered his hand on my face.
