My husband grabbed me by the hair beside our newborn’s crib and called me an unfit mother, but the nursery camera revealed he had been secretly switching my medication to make me look dangerous.

At 10:15 a.m., the front doorbell chimed. True to his word, my mother let herself in using her own set of keys, her heels clicking aggressively against the imported Italian marble of our foyer.

“Sophie!” she called out, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she glided up the stairs. “Where are you hiding? I brought organic lavender tea for your nerves.”

I was sitting quietly at the kitchen island, staring blankly at a cold cup of coffee. I let my hair fall messily across my face, wearing the oversized gray bathrobe that made me look ten pounds lighter than I actually was.

Mother appeared at the kitchen archway, assessing me with a clinical, appraising eye, like a butcher inspecting a prize calf before slaughter.

“You look terrible, darling,” she said, setting her designer handbag down on the counter. “Did you take your medication this morning? Nicholas said you’ve been difficult.”

“I took them,” I murmured, keeping my gaze fixed on the table. “Mother... why is Nicholas talking to lawyers? I heard him on the phone the other night. He said something about medical records.”

Mother’s expression tightened instantly. She stepped forward, her manicured hand gripping my shoulder with surprising strength. “Listen to me, Sophie. Your husband is trying to save your reputation—and our family’s good name. You’ve been unstable since Julian was born. You threw a vase at the wall last week; don't you remember?”

I didn't throw a vase. Nicholas had smashed it against the brick fireplace during one of his screaming matches, screaming that my erratic behavior had forced his hand.

“I... I don't remember,” I whispered, playing my part to absolute perfection.

“Of course you don't,” Mother sighed, patting my head with patronizing condescension. “Just sign the papers Nicholas brings home tonight. Let him handle the estate management. It’s too much for a fragile mind like yours.”

“Okay, Mother,” I whispered, letting my head droop.

She smiled, completely convinced she had broken me. She kissed the top of my head, murmured something about checking on the baby, and walked up the stairs toward the nursery.

The second she rounded the corner, my posture shifted. The vacant stare vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp focus. I pulled my burner phone out of my bathrobe pocket—a cheap prepaid device I had bought online three weeks ago and kept hidden inside the lining of my winter boots.

I tapped out a quick text message to an old contact from my architecture days—Marcus Vance, the fiercest, most ruthless private investigator and asset recovery specialist in the state.

“The trap is set. Come tonight at midnight through the back garden gate. Bring the data extraction kit.”