Bianca I never think about. She vanished the way she appeared — attached to money, gone the instant it stopped. Her brother, whose name was on the shell company, is having a far worse year than he anticipated when he agreed to a favor he didn’t understand. I feel nothing about any of them. That turned out to be the cleanest revenge of all: not hatred, just a vast, quiet indifference.
Now the part that actually matters.
For eleven years, I let myself be made small. I gave up the sharpest, truest thing about me because a man wanted a decorative wife and I was tired enough to become one. The great shame of my story isn’t that I married a criminal. It’s that I buried a prosecutor to do it.
I dug her back up.
I went back to the law. Not to the U.S. Attorney’s office — that chapter was closed — but to the work, the real work. I opened a practice. And I found, almost by accident, the thing I was apparently put on this earth to do, which is this: I help people — mostly women — who are being quietly robbed by the person who’s supposed to love them.
