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

Julian’s face flushed a mottled, furious red, but he lacked the backbone to yell. Too many patrons at nearby tables were already turning their heads, recognizing the unmistakable tension in the air.

"You think you’re so smart, don't you?" Julian hissed, leaning over my table, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the back of an empty chair. "You ruined my life. My firm let me go. My credit is destroyed. I’m living in a cramped studio apartment in the Loop while you sit here eating gourmet lunch in my neighborhood."

"Your neighborhood?" I set my fork down, letting out a light, musical laugh that made several diners smile. "Julian, sweetie, your name was never on the deed of the condo, and your name was never on the title of this neighborhood. You were just a squatter with a good tailor."

Fiona pushed past her son, her face twisted in venomous rage. "You ungrateful, calculating little parasite! After everything Julian did for you! After giving you the honor of being a Montgomery!"

"An honor?" I stood up slowly, towering over Fiona despite her dramatic fur coat. My voice dropped an octave, turning cold enough to freeze water. "Julian gave me five years of emotional abuse, financial exploitation, and sixty-dish demands. I gave him back his freedom, and a front-row seat to watching me thrive without him."

I turned my gaze back to Julian, who looked as though he might physically collapse right there on the bistro floor.

"If you ever approach my table, my building, or my life again," I whispered, leaning in close so only the two of them could hear, "I won't just freeze your offshore accounts. I’ll make sure the federal prosecutor finishes the paperwork we paused. Do you understand me?"

Julian swallowed hard, taking a slow, involuntary step backward. The terror in his eyes was absolute. He finally understood—there was no negotiation left, no manipulation that would work, and no corner of his old life where he could hide from the consequences of his own cruelty.

"Come on, Mom," Julian muttered, grabbing Fiona’s arm with trembling fingers. "Let's go."

Fiona shot me one last look of pure, unbridled hatred, but she didn't speak. She allowed her broken son to lead her away, out of the bistro and back into the cold Chicago afternoon.