When Michael opened the door of his shabby apartment, the color drained from his face.

“Claire,” he stammered.

“Surprise,” she said coldly, stepping inside.

He muttered about debts, “dangerous people,” but Claire already knew the truth—gambling, hidden loans, secret lives. Not survival. Cowardice.

“You left me with bills, grief, and shame,” she said, voice sharp. “You wanted me to cash your life insurance while you played ghost. You thought I’d clean up your mess.”

She pulled photos from her bag—proof of the storage unit, the fake IDs, the cash. His face went pale.

“You tracked me?” he whispered.

“That’s right,” she replied. “And now you’ll face everything you tried to escape.”