"My pregnant daughter was resting in a casket—and her husband arrived acting like it was a gala. He strolled in laughing with his mistress on his arm, her heels echoing on the chapel tiles like applause. She even leaned in close and whispered, “Guess I win.” I choked back my scream and stared at my daughter’s pale fingers, still, forever. Then the attorney stepped toward the altar, clutching a sealed envelope. “Before she is laid to rest,” he declared, his voice cutting, “her final testament must be read.” My son-in-law smirked—until the attorney spoke the first name. And the arrogance melted right off his face."

I took over Clara’s penthouse that night. The air still smelled faintly of her vanilla perfume. I sat on her massive bed, finally allowing the tears to fall. I wept for my brilliant daughter and the grandson I would never hold.

But the grief was interrupted by a knock on the door the next morning. It was Mr. Thorne, and he wasn't alone. He brought a private medical examiner.

“Eleanor,” Mr. Thorne said gently, taking a seat in the living room. “Clara didn't just ask me to draft a new will three months ago. She asked me to hire a private investigator.”

My blood ran cold. “Why?”

The medical examiner opened a file. “Clara’s official cause of death was listed as pre-eclampsia and sudden cardiac arrest. But Clara suspected Julian was tampering with her prenatal vitamins. She sent me a sample a week before she died.”

He handed me a lab report. “The capsules were laced with a slow-acting, untraceable synthetic toxin designed to induce severe hypertension. Julian didn't just cheat on your daughter, Mrs. Hayes. He murdered her.”