The sprawling property looked like a spread from Architectural Digest—all manicured emerald lawns, white columns that screamed old money, and hydrangeas that bloomed with unnatural perfection. But I had learned early in my three-year marriage that beautiful exteriors often conceal rot.

“Remember what we talked about,” Trevor whispered, squeezing my hand a little too tight as we approached the main house. “Just stay calm. Don’t engage if my mother starts anything. Please, Elena. For me.”