The keys were handed over. The SUV was driven away. And Gabriel Whitmore stood in a restaurant parking lot with his mother, his father, and his sister, having to explain to all of them that the ordinary wife he'd left on a curb had just repossessed the car he'd been using to look rich.
Then the rest of it arrived.
The apartment they lived in was mine — held through an arrangement my father had structured, which Gabriel had never understood because understanding it would have required him to be curious about where his comfortable life actually came from. My attorney served the notice. The lifestyle Gabriel had been performing for his investors, the car and the apartment and the appearance of success, was all built on things that belonged to me, and I took every one of them back, legally, cleanly, in the span of an afternoon, because my father had made sure years ago that I could.
