My husband locked me in the kitchen and ordered me to cook sixty dishes for his mother—so I quietly recorded everything he said.

The digital clock on the microwave clicked to 11:59 AM.

Upstairs in the master suite, Julian was probably knotting his silk tie, confident that his wife was downstairs sweating over copper pots, terrified of being tossed out onto the freezing Chicago pavement. Fiona was undoubtedly admiring herself in the mirror, practicing the condescending smile she reserved for anyone she considered beneath her—which, in her mind, included everyone except heirs to old money and European royalty.

The doorbell chimed. Not a polite, single ring, but a sharp, authoritative double-ding.

I didn't rush to the door. I was standing by the kitchen island, slowly wiping down the quartz countertop with a damp microfiber cloth. I wore a simple cream turtleneck and dark denim—functional, sharp, and entirely unbothered.

Heavy footsteps descended the floating hardwood staircase. Julian appeared around the corner, looking immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, his expression a mask of manufactured authority.

"Guests are here, Sloan," Julian snapped, checking his luxury watch. "Where is the spread? If you haven't even plated the appetizers—"

"The appetizers are right where they belong," I said smoothly, not even turning around.

Fiona drifted into the foyer behind him, swathed in emerald silk that caught the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her eyes darted toward the empty dining table, where not a single fork, knife, or ceramic bowl had been set.

Her face tightened instantly. "Where is my breakfast? Where are my sixty dishes?"

"Ask them," I said, gesturing toward the front entryway.

Before Julian could bark another threat, the heavy oak front door—which Julian had left unlocked for the early arrivals—swung wide open. But it wasn't family friends stepping into the foyer.

It was a uniformed process server carrying a thick, expandable leather portfolio, flanked by two armed private security officers in plain black suits. Behind them stood Darcy, holding a crisp leather binder, her expression cold and lethal.

Julian froze, his hand hovering mid-air. "What is the meaning of this? Who let you into my building?"

"It’s not your building, Julian," Darcy said, her voice cutting through the silent foyer like shattered glass. She stepped across the threshold, her heels clicking rhythmically against the Italian tile. "And these aren't party guests. These are federal and civil representatives of the Cook County Court."

Fiona’s jaw dropped. "Julian! Do something! Throw these trashy people out of your house!"

Julian’s face flushed a deep, violent purple. He stepped forward, chest puffed out, reverting straight to the bully who had locked me in the kitchen twelve hours ago. "I am giving you exactly five seconds to walk out that door before I call security and have you arrested for trespassing. This is my home!"

I finally turned around, leaning casually against the kitchen island, and pulled the secondary debit card from my pocket, letting it catch the light before slipping it into my palm.

"Actually, Julian," I said, letting a cold, sweet smile touch my lips, "tell them about the mortgage. Go on. Tell your mother who pays the $3,500 every single month."