"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 storm that hit the Southern California coast that night was the worst in a decade, matching the tempest that had nearly claimed my life eight years ago.

Inside Blake’s cliffside mansion in Malibu, the lights flickered as the wind howled against the massive glass windows.

Blake stood in his private study, a half-empty bottle of scotch in his hand, frantically packing stacks of cash, offshore corporate bonds, and fake passports into a leather duffel bag. The news had just broken that the federal prosecutors had issued an emergency freeze on all domestic assets connected to Carter Development Group.

He was ruined. The IPO was gone, his company was bankrupt, and the FBI was preparing an indictment for wire fraud and money laundering.

"You're late, Blake," a voice said from the shadows near the balcony doors.

Blake spun around, dropping the bottle of scotch. It shattered against the hardwood floor, the dark liquid pooling around his leather shoes.

I stepped out of the shadows, dressed in a black trench coat. Behind me stood Margaret, her arms crossed, her eyes cold and unyielding.

Blake stared at us, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He looked from me to Margaret, his brain completely unable to process the physical reality of the two "dead" women standing in his room.

"You..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "Both of you... it’s not possible. I killed you. I saw you sink..."

"You tried, Blake," Margaret said, her voice a low, lethal hum that seemed to match the rumble of the thunder outside. "But the ocean has a way of returning what you throw into it."

"What do you want?" Blake cried, falling back against his desk, clutching the leather bag of cash to his chest like a shield. "I have money. I have millions in this bag. Take it. Take it all and let me go! I’ll leave the country. You can have the company, the house, everything!"

"We don't want your blood money, Blake," I said, taking a slow step toward him. "And you don't have millions. Those corporate bonds in your bag? Marcus deactivated those offshore accounts three hours ago. You are completely, utterly broke."

"No..." Blake shook his head, frantically opening the bag, his hands shaking as he pulled out the documents. "No, that’s impossible! Vivien said the transfer was secure!"

"Vivien was arrested an hour ago at LAX," Margaret said, a cold smile touching her lips. "She was trying to board a flight to Zurich with a forged passport. She’s already talking to the feds, Blake. She’s blaming everything on you. She’s giving them the location of the safe where you kept the forged signatures."

"You set me up," Blake whispered, tears of terror finally spilling down his hollow cheeks. "From the very beginning... the audit, the gala... it was all a trap."

"It wasn't a trap, Blake," I said, leaning over his desk, looking into his hollow, terrified eyes. "It was justice. Eight years ago, you pushed a pregnant woman into the freezing ocean for three million dollars. You thought you were god. You thought you could decide who lived and who died."

"I’m sorry," he sobbed, dropping to his knees, clutching my coat. "Elena, please... I’m sorry. I loved you. I did it because of the debt... they were going to kill me..."

"Don't touch me," I said, pulling my coat away with disgust.

The sound of shattering glass echoed from the foyer below, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thumping of tactical boots.

"FBI! Nobody move! Hands in the air!"

Federal agents poured into the study, their weapons trained on Blake. He didn't even try to struggle. He lay on the floor, weeping pathetically, his face pressed against the wet, scotch-soaked wood, as the steel handcuffs were snapped onto his wrists.

As they dragged him past us, he looked up at me, his eyes wild and completely vacant.