Michael turned toward me.

Confused.

Brittany watched from beside the champagne wall.

Nervous now.

The master of ceremonies handed me the microphone.

Music faded.

Three hundred conversations slowly disappeared.

“I wasn’t scheduled to speak,” I said.

Michael shifted in his chair.

“But after ten years of marriage…”

I looked directly at him.

“…I thought tonight deserved something honest.”

“Claire.”

Michael started standing.

I ignored him.

My eyes moved across the ballroom until they found Brittany.

Her champagne flute had stopped halfway to her lips.

Then my phone vibrated.

8:59 p.m.

The real email was gone.

Delivered quietly to six people.

Michael knew nothing about it.

The giant screen behind me changed.

Our wedding photograph disappeared.

A fake email window appeared instead.

Across the screen was the subject line:

FORMAL COMPLAINT REGARDING EMPLOYEE CONDUCT — BRITTANY ADAMS

A gasp swept through the ballroom.

Brittany’s face went completely white.

Michael shoved his chair backward.

“Claire, what the hell are you doing?”

I looked at my husband.

Then at Brittany.

Her fingers trembled around the champagne stem.

I raised the microphone.

“Giving your girlfriend the attention she asked for.”

Her glass slipped.

It struck the marble floor.

CRASH.

Hundreds of heads turned.

Michael started toward me.

And on the giant screen behind us, one button waited beneath the fake email.

SEND.

I lowered my eyes to my phone.

My thumb moved toward it.

Michael suddenly realized what I appeared ready to do.

“CLAIRE—DON’T!”

He crossed the dance floor.

Several guests stood.

I looked up.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Then explain it.”

“Not here.”

“Why?”

His face reddened.

“Because this isn’t about our marriage.”

The room seemed to tilt.

I heard someone whisper.

Michael realized too late what he had said.

I smiled.

“No?”

“Claire.”

I lifted the phone.

“Then what is it about?”

He looked toward the screen.

Toward the apparent attachments.

Toward Brittany.

And finally toward Ryan.

Ryan Hale was standing near the rear doors.

That single glance told me everything.

I turned toward him.

“Ryan?”

His face remained expressionless.

Michael snapped.

“Claire, put the damn phone down.”

“What are you afraid I’ll send?”

“You know exactly what.”

“No,” I said softly.

“Tell me.”

He lowered his voice.

“The expense files.”

A murmur moved through the room.

I tilted my head.

“Interesting.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

“Because I never told you there were expense files.”

Silence.

Perfect silence.

Michael stopped moving.

Ryan closed his eyes.

Only for half a second.

But I saw it.

“So,” I continued, “either you’re psychic…”

I looked toward Ryan.

“…or somebody told you.”

Michael’s composure cracked.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

I touched the screen control.

The fake email vanished.

Another image appeared.

ACCESS LOG — WHITMORE FAMILY TRUST

Ryan’s credentials.

The date.

The downloaded documents.

A second document appeared.

Bank transfers.

Michael Carter to Hale Strategic Services.

$75,000.

$120,000.

$90,000.

Ryan turned toward the exit.

Two hotel security officers stepped in front of the doors.

His voice hardened.

“You have no authority to detain me.”

“No,” I said.

“But the federal investigators currently waiting upstairs might.”

The ballroom erupted.

Michael looked genuinely stunned.

For the first time in ten years, my husband had no speech prepared.