My husband’s stepmother texted me a photo of them sleeping in my bed, wearing my late mother’s emeralds. “Poor little wife,” she mocked.
Julian was the first to notice the heavy envelopes. He tapped the red wax seal with his fork, his arrogant brow furrowing. “What’s this, Eleanor? Some sort of party game?” “Consider it a prelude,” I replied smoothly, pouring a vintage Bordeaux he could no longer actually afford. When Harrison and Vivienne finally arrived, she practically…