The Jilted Wife's Spectacular Genius Comeback

made Arlie flinch. Her shoulders hunched up to her ears, her body curling inward on instinct. Two years of conditioned responses

ke a sack, the fabric stiff and scratchy against her skin. In her left hand, she clutched a small canvas tote bag containing a toothbru

ressed to her chest. "Mr. Mccormick has ar

s smile was tight, professional, and completely devoid of warmth. It was the first sign, a

the license plate, the way the leather smelled, the subtle gloss of the wood trim. She looked for it now, her heart doing a frantic little

empty except f

e bare branches of the winter trees. The driver's door opened, and Arthur Finch stepped out. He was older, his hair more silver than

the back of the car, his face a mask of stone. He popp

hospital-issued slip-on shoes slap

sed it into the trunk like it was a bag of garbage, the heavy

rlie. Ma'am. Like she was

nd into her bones. The car smelled like cheap pine air freshener, the kind you bought at a gas station, not the rich, woody sandalwood that u

uckles turning white. "Where's Killian?

for a fraction of a second. They were flat, empty. "Mr.

ir board meetings on Wednesdays. It was a schedule set in stone. Tod

ame came out a whis

sson," Arthur said, pulling the car a

y time she swallowed. It was Kaelynn who had forged the documents. Kaelynn who had embezzled the funds. And Kael

ak of brown and grey. She wasn't going home. She was being

er voice barely audible over the

Arthu

house th

N

rom the seat to her lap, twisting the hem of her grey dress. The thread was cheap, already fraying under the pres

he first ring, his voice clipped and respe

ry. She was shaking so har

raight to the estate. Mr. and

ey never came to the estate. They hated the drive. They hated the pretensio

assenger seat. "Arthur, my trust fund. I need to call my f

the grim satisfaction of delivering bad news. "Ms. Stuart, Mr. Mccormick gave instructions for your trust fund to b

Frozen. She had nothing. She had no money, no identity, no family. She

he end of the lane, a sprawling monstrosity of brick and ivy. It had never felt like home,

at lined the path to the front door. She had spent years cultivating those beds. She had planted white roses

n was a s

blood, the color of passion, the color of Kaelynn's lipstick, stared back at her. The

. The garden was a statement.

idn't move. She just stared at the red roses, her bre