The room had grown deathly quiet, the air thick with the smell of cooling gravy and the sudden, sharp tension of my stillness. David stopped laughing, his smile faltering as he watched me slide a stack of bank statements and offshore transfer logs across the mahogany table. They slid perfectly across the polished wood, coming to a stop right in front of his plate.
“You thought I was just a wife, David,” I said, my voice steady, devoid of the tremor Eleanor had tried to provoke. “You thought I was a servant you could humiliate for sport. But while you were busy playing the patriarch, I was auditing the ‘family business’ you claim is so successful. It turns out, your mother’s lavish lifestyle and your ‘investment’ accounts are funded by a web of embezzlement that would make a mob accountant blush.”
