"Your three-million-dollar insurance policy was approved this morning, sweetheart!" my husband sneered as he pushed my bruised, pregnant body toward the edge. I didn't die that day, but eight years later, I returned from the dead to strip away his wealth, his freedom, and his sanity.

The next two weeks were a masterclass in psychological warfare.

With Margaret’s guidance and Marcus’s digital support, we didn't launch a direct legal assault. Instead, we fed Blake’s paranoia.

Every morning, Blake would arrive at his executive office to find a small, anonymous package on his desk.

On Monday, it was a single, rusted gold charm in the shape of an anchor—identical to the ones on the lead anklet he had fastened to my leg.

On Wednesday, it was a certified copy of Margaret’s original, forged death certificate, with the word FRAUD stamped across it in thick, red ink.

On Friday, his personal email received a single, audio file: the sound of a heart monitor ticking, followed by the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of an unborn baby's heartbeat.

"He’s unraveling," Margaret reported, looking at the security feeds we had tapped inside his private residence. "He’s barely sleeping. He’s drinking heavily, and he’s started arguing with Vivien. He suspects she’s the one leaking the files to us."

"Good," I said, sitting at my desk in our temporary offices in Century City. "The more he suspects Vivien, the more he will try to hide his personal assets from her. And that’s when he’ll make the transfer."

As expected, Blake’s mental state began to rapidly deteriorate. He began to see my face in every crowd. He fired his personal driver, claiming the man was spying on him. He had his office swept for bugs three times a week, but Marcus's digital taps were embedded deep within the building’s firmware, completely undetectable by standard sweeps.

The climax of his paranoia came during a high-stakes board meeting with the underwriting banks.

I was sitting at the long glass table, representing Pacific Alliance. Blake sat at the head, his eyes bloodshot, his skin sallow, looking like a man who hadn't slept in a month. Vivien sat next to him, her face tense, her eyes darting nervously toward him.

"The capital structure is solid," Vivien was saying, projecting a slide onto the screen. "We have secured a thirty-million-dollar anchor investment from our partners in Singapore—"

"She’s lying!" Blake suddenly shouted, slamming his fist onto the table.

The board members froze, staring at him in shock.

"Blake, what are you doing?" Vivien whispered, her face turning red with embarrassment.

"You’re trying to take the company from me, Vivien!" Blake screamed, standing up, his chair clattering backward onto the floor. He pointed a shaking finger at her. "I know what you did! You’ve been talking to Clara. You’ve been giving her the AeroGlobal files! You want to lock me up so you can keep the Singapore funds for yourself!"

"Blake, you are having a breakdown," Vivien said, her voice trembling as she looked at the shocked faces of the bank representatives. "Please, sit down. Let’s take a recess."

"No! I won't let you do it!" Blake roared, grabbing his briefcase. "I built this! I paid the price! I’m the one who did what had to be done! You were just the lawyer!"

He stormed out of the boardroom, slamming the heavy mahogany door behind him.

I sat calmly at the table, taking a slow sip of my water. I looked at the lead underwriter, who was already shaking his head, writing a note on his pad.