She didn’t want to shout or shame. That kind of revenge leaves ash in your mouth. Claire wanted sunlight—clear, honest, undeniable. She visited a hardware store she and Daniel had loved when they were broke and left with a shovel. At home, she dusted the blade and tied a ribbon around the handle. She slipped a copy of their marriage certificate into her purse along with a folder of bank transfers labeled “Down payment—car,” “Seed investment—office,” “Loan—family.”

On the day of the wedding, she stopped at the florist and bought white ranunculus. “For planting,” she told the florist, and the woman smiled as if that made perfect sense.

Now, at the threshold of Rosebridge Hall, Claire lifted the shovel and rested the blade on the ground. The bouquet slid forward and settled against the metal.

“Isabelle,” she said, speaking past the man she once knew, “you look beautiful. This must be a wonderful day for you. I’m not here to accuse you. I don’t know what you’ve been told.” She held up the folder. “But this is the truth of what exists already.”