Eight months pregnant with our miracle baby, my husband brought his 22-year-old mistress to our baby shower. When I demanded they leave, he sneered that she carried the “real heir” while his parents applauded. Lying on the floor, I smiled through the pain. They didn’t know the FBI raid I’d arranged was set for 2:00 PM.

“You rehearsed that,” I said. “But you forgot the cameras.”

His eyes snapped upward. In the corners of the ballroom, tiny black lenses were hidden inside the floral arrangements. They were not hotel security cameras.

They were mine.

Victor’s face paled. Elaine whispered his name.

My sister finally broke through security and dropped beside me, shaking.

“Mara, don’t move.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

Daniel stepped back.

“Turn those cameras off.”

“They’re livestreaming to my attorney,” I said. “And to the FBI.”

The word hi:t the room like thunder. Celeste stopped touching her stomach. Victor moved faster than a man his age should have.

“Daniel. Office. Now.”

But it was too late.