My husband stood in our marble kitchen laughing while his mistress called me a washed-up old maid, completely certain I had no money, no family, and nowhere left to run.

The story went viral by lunchtime.

“Billionaire Heiress Accused of Stealing Husband’s Company.”

“Langford Family Plot: Did Elara Frame Her Husband for Abuse?”

“Exclusive: Derek Callahan Speaks Out—‘My Wife Is Holding Our Daughter Hostage.’”

Every news site in the state had it. The national outlets picked it up by mid-afternoon. Twitter exploded. Facebook was flooded with opinions. Half the people thought I was a hero who’d finally stood up to an abusive monster. The other half thought I was a spoiled rich girl who’d destroyed a good man’s life because she was bored.

Derek did a live interview with a cable news network that night.

He sat in a leather chair in what looked like a lawyer’s office, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, his eyes red-rimmed, his voice cracking at all the right moments.

“I loved Elara,” he told the host. “I loved her more than anything. But after her father died—well, after he got sick, really—she changed. She became paranoid. Jealous. Convinced I was cheating on her. The night she called her father? I’d just asked her for a divorce. She snapped. She hit herself with that belt. She told our daughter to say I did it. It was all… it was all a setup to take the company from me.”

The host leaned forward sympathetically.

“And the mistress? Sloane Avery?”

“Ms. Avery was an employee. A very valuable employee. Elara became convinced we were having an affair. It was all in her head. Tragic, really. A brilliant woman… brought down by her own demons.”

I threw the remote across the hotel room.

We’d moved out of my father’s house and into a suite at the Jefferson after the press showed up at the gate. Lily was in the next room watching cartoons, blessedly unaware that her father was lying to millions of people about her mother.

“That son of a bitch,” I whispered.

My father picked up the remote from where it had landed against the wall. He’d watched the whole interview in silence, his face impassive. But I knew him well enough to see the anger in the way his jaw worked.

“He’s good,” my father said. “Very good. Vane wrote every word of that, I’d bet my last dollar.”

“He said I hit myself. He said Lily lied. How can he say those things about his own daughter?”

“Because he’s not a father right now, Elara. He’s a man with nothing left to lose. And men like that will say anything to survive.”

There was a knock at the door.

Mr. Hale opened it and stepped aside.

Sloane walked in.

She was wearing a simple black dress, no makeup, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looked nothing like the glamorous mistress from my living room. She looked like a woman ready for war.

“I saw the interview,” she said, closing the door behind her. “He threw me under the bus. ‘Just an employee.’ After everything I did for him.”

She dropped a thick stack of papers on the coffee table.

“I brought more. Text messages between Derek and Vane. They’ve been planning this interview for three days. They’ve got a private investigator digging into your past. They’re going to try to prove you have BPD. They’re going to subpoena every medical record you’ve ever had.”

I sat down heavily on the couch.

“How do you have these?”

“Derek still thinks I’m on his side. He called me this afternoon. Told me if I testified for him, he’d make sure I got a million dollars from the settlement. He sent me the files to ‘refresh my memory.’”

Sloane smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“I sent them to your lawyer already. But I thought you should see them first.”

I picked up the top sheet.

It was a text chain between Derek and Vane.

Derek: She’ll crack. I know her. Push her hard enough and she’ll have a breakdown on the stand.

Vane: Good. The crazier she looks, the better. Jurors hate rich crazy women.

Derek: What about the kid?

Vane: We use the kid. If she won’t break, the kid will. Seven-year-olds are suggestible. A few questions from the right psychologist and she’ll say whatever we want.

I dropped the paper like it was on fire.

“They’re going to interrogate Lily?”

“Not directly,” my father said, picking up the text. “They’ll ask the court to appoint a guardian ad litem. A child psychologist who’ll interview her privately. And if Vane has already spoken to that psychologist…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

I stood up.

“Call Sarah,” I said. “Tell her we’re going on the offensive. Tomorrow morning. I want to do an interview. My side of the story. No more hiding.”

My father stood up too.