My husband threw me out on the street after inheriting 75 million, believing I was a burden. But as the lawyer read the final clause, his triumphant smile turned into a face of panic.

I cleaned Arthur when he was sick. I listened to his stories when medication blurred his memories. I read the paper to him every morning. I held his hand when fear crept in during the dark hours. Curtis would show up occasionally, perfectly dressed, to pat his father’s shoulder and casually ask, “Did he mention the will today?”

I didn’t want to see the cruelty. I told myself Curtis was coping in his own way. I called it love. I was wrong.

The day Arthur died, my world collapsed. I had lost someone who had become family. But for Curtis, it was as if life had just begun. At the funeral, he cried—beautifully. Perfect tears, dabbed away with a silk handkerchief, while his eyes calculated the wealth of the men standing beside him.

Two days later, the truth surfaced.