But enough to survive if something happened.
I wiped frosting from my eyes.
Derek raised his champagne glass.
“To my beautiful wife,” he announced.
Scattered laughter returned.
Patricia lifted her glass. “She’ll learn how to take a joke eventually.”
I looked across the ballroom.
Near the service entrance stood Lena.
She wasn’t crying anymore.
She was watching me.
Waiting.
I gave her the smallest nod.
Derek pulled me against his chest.
“There she is,” he murmured. “Good girl.”
I smiled.
Not because he had won.
Because inside the tiny pearl button sewn beneath the neckline of my dress was a miniature audio recorder.
And in Lena’s purse was a sealed envelope containing photographs, medical records, bank statements, and a signed copy of a document Derek had never bothered to read.
Our prenuptial agreement.
Specifically, the domestic-abuse clause his attorney had laughed about.
One verified assault after marriage would trigger immediate financial separation, waive his claim to my premarital assets, and activate protections around the company shares he believed he was marrying into.
