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

Three weeks later, the luxury condo didn't look like Julian’s shrine anymore.

Gone were the pretentious chrome-and-black minimalist aesthetics that Fiona had forced upon us under the guise of "modern elegance." Gone was the dark, oppressive dining table where I had spent countless evenings listening to Fiona critique my posture, my cooking, and my clothes.

Instead, the space was flooded with warm white oak, soft neutral linens, and vibrant custom artwork commissioned from local independent artists.

The kitchen—once the site of my imprisonment—had been completely gutted. The old smart-appliances that Julian used to monitor power usage had been replaced with professional-grade restaurant equipment. I stood in the center of the newly expanded island, running my hand over the seamless marble countertop, sipping black coffee in peace.

My phone rang. This time, it wasn't Julian.

It was Marcus Vance, Julian’s older brother—though "older" was about all they had in common. Marcus was a structural engineer based in Denver, a man who had cut ties with Fiona and Julian a decade ago after realizing toxic narcissism was the family’s primary export.

"Sloan?" Marcus’s deep voice came through the speaker. "Is it true? Did you actually drop the hammer on Julian?"

"It’s true, Marcus," I said, leaning against the counter. "The divorce papers were finalized this morning. Julian signed over all claims to the condo in exchange for us dropping the corporate fraud investigation into his offshore accounts."

Marcus let out a long, exhausted whistle. "Unbelievable. Mom has been calling my office every day for two weeks screaming about how you ruined their lives, demanding I let her move into my guest room. I blocked her number yesterday."

"I'm sorry you have to deal with her fallout."

"Don't be," Marcus chuckled darkly. "Julian made his bed. Or, in this case, got locked out of it. Listen... I’m actually flying into Chicago next week for an architectural convention. Would you... would you be open to grabbing dinner? I’d love to see the new place, and more importantly, make sure you're doing okay."

I smiled, looking around the bright, sunlit kitchen that now belonged entirely to me.