Chapter 7
Vanessa didn't waste her two hours.
By the time I got home, my phone was exploding with notifications. She'd gone straight to social media and given a tearful interview to a gossip influencer with three million followers.
"Elena Reed is a deeply disturbed woman," Vanessa said on camera, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "She became obsessed with the idea that Marcus and I were having an affair. There was never anything between us—I was just his colleague."
She sniffled dramatically.
"She's been harassing me for months. Filing false reports. Making up conspiracy theories. And now she's weaponized the legal system against an innocent man because she couldn't handle the fact that their marriage was falling apart."
The comments section was already flooding in her favor.
*"Wow, this Elena woman sounds psycho."*
*"Imagine ruining a man's life over your insecurities."*
*"I believe Vanessa. She seems so genuine."*
I felt a flash of rage so hot it burned behind my eyes.
In my past life, this would have worked. I would have seen those comments and spiraled. Questioned myself. Wondered if I really was the crazy one.
Not anymore.
I called Sophie. "How quickly can you compile the offshore transaction records into something visual? Something a journalist can understand in under five minutes?"
"Give me three hours."
"You have two. Vanessa just went public."
"That bitch. On it."
Next, I called a reporter I'd identified during my research—Kathleen Morales from the city's biggest investigative news outlet. She'd been trying to get a story on financial fraud among tech startups for a year.
"Ms. Morales? My name is Elena Cross. I'm Marcus Reed's wife. I have documentation proving my husband and his COO embezzled eight million dollars, fabricated medical bills, forged my psychiatric records, and were planning to murder me for a fifty-two-million-dollar trust fund."
Dead silence on the other end.
Then: "When can we meet?"
...
The interview aired twenty-four hours later.
Kathleen Morales didn't just report the story—she eviscerated it. Bank records, offshore transfers, Dr. Hoffman's signed confession, the loosened balcony railing photographed by federal agents, Marcus's own words recorded on my phone.
And the centerpiece: a side-by-side comparison of Vanessa's "I was just his colleague" claim against hotel receipts, intimate texts recovered from Marcus's cloud backup, and a photo of Vanessa wearing a $30,000 necklace purchased from my trust's disbursement account.
The internet turned on a dime.
*"Oh my God, they were literally going to kill her."*
*"Vanessa Holt is a sociopath. Lock her up forever."*
*"This poor woman. Eight years of marriage to a monster."*
Vanessa's bail was revoked within six hours of the broadcast after prosecutors argued she'd used her temporary freedom to intimidate and publicly defame a victim.
The satisfaction should have been sweet. And it was—for about an hour.
Then my phone rang. An unknown number again.
But this time, it wasn't Vanessa.
"Elena?"
A voice I hadn't heard in three years. My stomach dropped.
"Mom?"
"I saw the news, baby." Her voice was thick, emotional. "I can't believe what that man did to you. I should have been there. I should have protected you."
My mother. The woman who'd disappeared from my life when I was twenty-two, right after my father died, leaving me alone with a massive trust fund and no guidance.
The same woman who'd introduced me to Marcus at a charity gala.
"How did you get this number?" I asked, my voice cold.
"That doesn't matter, sweetheart. What matters is that I'm here now. I'm flying in tomorrow. We'll get through this together—"
"Who gave you this number?"
A pause.
"Marcus's lawyer contacted me. Said you might need family support during this difficult time."
My blood turned to ice.
Marcus's lawyer contacted her. Right.
Because if Marcus could get my own mother to vouch for my "mental instability"—to claim she'd seen signs of it since childhood—then his defense team would have a star witness.
"Don't bother coming, Mom," I said. "We have nothing to discuss."
"Elena, please—"
I hung up.
But my hands were shaking. Because I remembered now—in my previous life, my mother had appeared at my funeral. And she'd told reporters that I'd always been "fragile."
She was part of this. She'd always been part of this.
By the time I got home, my phone was exploding with notifications. She'd gone straight to social media and given a tearful interview to a gossip influencer with three million followers.
"Elena Reed is a deeply disturbed woman," Vanessa said on camera, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "She became obsessed with the idea that Marcus and I were having an affair. There was never anything between us—I was just his colleague."
She sniffled dramatically.
"She's been harassing me for months. Filing false reports. Making up conspiracy theories. And now she's weaponized the legal system against an innocent man because she couldn't handle the fact that their marriage was falling apart."
The comments section was already flooding in her favor.
*"Wow, this Elena woman sounds psycho."*
*"Imagine ruining a man's life over your insecurities."*
*"I believe Vanessa. She seems so genuine."*
I felt a flash of rage so hot it burned behind my eyes.
In my past life, this would have worked. I would have seen those comments and spiraled. Questioned myself. Wondered if I really was the crazy one.
Not anymore.
I called Sophie. "How quickly can you compile the offshore transaction records into something visual? Something a journalist can understand in under five minutes?"
"Give me three hours."
"You have two. Vanessa just went public."
"That bitch. On it."
Next, I called a reporter I'd identified during my research—Kathleen Morales from the city's biggest investigative news outlet. She'd been trying to get a story on financial fraud among tech startups for a year.
"Ms. Morales? My name is Elena Cross. I'm Marcus Reed's wife. I have documentation proving my husband and his COO embezzled eight million dollars, fabricated medical bills, forged my psychiatric records, and were planning to murder me for a fifty-two-million-dollar trust fund."
Dead silence on the other end.
Then: "When can we meet?"
...
The interview aired twenty-four hours later.
Kathleen Morales didn't just report the story—she eviscerated it. Bank records, offshore transfers, Dr. Hoffman's signed confession, the loosened balcony railing photographed by federal agents, Marcus's own words recorded on my phone.
And the centerpiece: a side-by-side comparison of Vanessa's "I was just his colleague" claim against hotel receipts, intimate texts recovered from Marcus's cloud backup, and a photo of Vanessa wearing a $30,000 necklace purchased from my trust's disbursement account.
The internet turned on a dime.
*"Oh my God, they were literally going to kill her."*
*"Vanessa Holt is a sociopath. Lock her up forever."*
*"This poor woman. Eight years of marriage to a monster."*
Vanessa's bail was revoked within six hours of the broadcast after prosecutors argued she'd used her temporary freedom to intimidate and publicly defame a victim.
The satisfaction should have been sweet. And it was—for about an hour.
Then my phone rang. An unknown number again.
But this time, it wasn't Vanessa.
"Elena?"
A voice I hadn't heard in three years. My stomach dropped.
"Mom?"
"I saw the news, baby." Her voice was thick, emotional. "I can't believe what that man did to you. I should have been there. I should have protected you."
My mother. The woman who'd disappeared from my life when I was twenty-two, right after my father died, leaving me alone with a massive trust fund and no guidance.
The same woman who'd introduced me to Marcus at a charity gala.
"How did you get this number?" I asked, my voice cold.
"That doesn't matter, sweetheart. What matters is that I'm here now. I'm flying in tomorrow. We'll get through this together—"
"Who gave you this number?"
A pause.
"Marcus's lawyer contacted me. Said you might need family support during this difficult time."
My blood turned to ice.
Marcus's lawyer contacted her. Right.
Because if Marcus could get my own mother to vouch for my "mental instability"—to claim she'd seen signs of it since childhood—then his defense team would have a star witness.
"Don't bother coming, Mom," I said. "We have nothing to discuss."
"Elena, please—"
I hung up.
But my hands were shaking. Because I remembered now—in my previous life, my mother had appeared at my funeral. And she'd told reporters that I'd always been "fragile."
She was part of this. She'd always been part of this.