Chapter 1

Inside the luxury postpartum recovery retreat, I had just picked up a rare white pineberry from the fruit platter.

Tiffany's eyes instantly welled up with tears, and she let out a loud sob.

Beatrice snatched the platter out of my hands. "You’re a grown woman, Chloe! How dare you fight with Tiffany over food! Have you no shame?"

I was about to press the call button to ask the nurse for another platter, but my husband, William, stopped me with a dark expression.

"That box of strawberries cost fifty dollars! Can't you eat something cheaper?"

"You should check out tomorrow and finish your recovery at home!"

I frowned. "My stitches haven't even been removed yet. I plan to stay for the full six-week program."

William’s face instantly twisted.

"A thousand dollars a day for a luxury suite? Do you think you can afford that? Are you trying to bleed me dry?"

"Can you grow up for once? Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to make eight thousand a month?"

"If you insist on staying here, pay for it yourself. Otherwise, pack your bags and get the hell home!"

I looked at him and smiled.

"William, this ten-thousand-a-week premium suite is charged to my credit card."

"The penthouse our entire family lives in was bought by me, in cash."

"Even the down payment for Tiffany’s apartment was paid by me."

"You’re a parasitic gold digger. Where do you get the nerve to put on this show?"

"Say that again. I dare you."

William turned back, his face contorted with rage after being insulted.

He walked over and jabbed his finger hard against my forehead.

"Did giving birth rot your brain?"

"Which part of what I said was a lie?" I didn't flinch. "The penthouse, the recovery retreat, the down payment for Tiffany's apartment. Do you need me to read out the bank transfers one by one?"

William's finger froze for a second.

Then, he sneered.

"Fine. You have money. You're amazing."

"But let me ask you this—did you marry into the Miller family of your own free will?"

"Aren't marital assets joint property after marriage?"

"And that penthouse you bought, whose name is on the deed right now?"

Looking at William’s twisted grin, I replied calmly:

"My name is on the deed. I bought it in full before our marriage. It has nothing to do with you."

"Are you sure about that?"

He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped it a few times, and shoved the screen in my face.

Under the property owner section, two names were written: Chloe Vance and William Miller.

The blood in my veins turned ice-cold from my fingers to the top of my head.

"When did you add your name?"

"Last month," William said, putting his phone back.

"The day you went for your prenatal checkup. I used your ID, and you signed the authorization letter yourself."

"I never signed any authorization letter."

"Oh, yes you did," Beatrice said, putting the fruit platter on the table and crossing her arms. "When you were seven months pregnant, William gave you a stack of papers to sign, and you signed them yourself."

I remembered. That day, my feet were terribly swollen, and my head was pounding. William had brought a stack of papers, telling me they were for insurance and baby registration. I was in too much pain to look closely, so I just signed them.

"That was a power of attorney for the property deed," William said. "Sweetheart, since both our names are on the deed now, we should manage it together."

His tone was as gentle as if he were soothing a child.

"Not together. William makes the big decisions in this house from now on," Beatrice chimed in from the side. "Why should a woman worry about so much?"

Tiffany pulled at the collar of her coat.

I glanced over. That coat was a custom piece from my walk-in closet—a limited edition with only fifteen pieces worldwide. It had arrived last month, and the tag hadn't even been removed yet.

"Don't worry, Chloe. My brother won't treat you badly."

"Who gave you permission to wear that coat?"

"Mom got it for me. She said you have too many clothes to wear anyway, so she wanted me to help you 'use them up'."

Help me use them up. A forty-eight-thousand-dollar couture piece.

Beatrice spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Your closet is stuffed with hundreds of clothes, many with the tags still on. You can't wear them during your postpartum recovery anyway. What’s wrong with letting Tiffany wear them?"

"I’ll return it after I'm done," Tiffany mumbled, adjusting the collar as if it were her own.

William didn't look at the clothes. He just stared at me.

"Are you done throwing your tantrum? Are you quiet now?"

He walked to the bedside table, picked up my phone, and swiped on it.

"I’ve linked your credit cards to my Apple Pay. I used your Face ID to unlock it when you were half-dead in pain during labor. I've linked all your main cards. It’s easier for me to manage the accounts."

"Give it back."

"You shouldn't worry about managing money," he said, slipping my phone into his pocket.

Beatrice immediately added, "There's no 'yours' or 'mine' between a husband and wife."

William led Beatrice and Tiffany toward the door. At the threshold, he turned around.

"Oh, by the way, I reported your Amex Black Card as lost this morning and got a replacement. The new card is with me."

The door shut.

The room in the recovery center became suffocatingly quiet.

On the floor, the white pineberry had split in half, its flesh turning black.

I pressed the call button.

Nurse Brenda arrived quickly.

"Miss Vance, is everything alright?"

"Please double-check for me. Can the deposit I paid upon admission still be accessed?"

She went out and returned two minutes later.

"The hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar deposit is secure. The contract is in your name, and no one else has access to it."

"Good. Change my visitor authorization immediately. No one is allowed in this room without my personal approval."

"Including your husband?"

"Including him."

Nurse Brenda looked at me, asked no questions, nodded, and left.

I reached under my pillow. Hidden there was a backup phone I had slid in on the day of my admission.

I scrolled to a number I hadn't dialed in over seven months. The contact name: Uncle Arthur.

"Chloe? I heard you gave birth?"

"Uncle Arthur, I need you to look into something for me. Check how the deed modification for my penthouse was approved."

"Also, I want the bank statements for all accounts under William Miller's name for the past three months. Every single transaction."

There was a two-second silence on the other end.

"I'll have it for you within three hours."