Jennifer POV The day Morgan left for Singapore was a day of terrifying opportunity. He stood outside his mansion, well-dressed and presentable, ready for his usual business trip. Every one of his travel suits was well arranged in his luggage and carried out by his driver.

“Behave,” he said, his kiss a dry, threatening touch on my cheek.

“Of course, Stanley. Have a successful trip,” I murmured, my eyes downcast, pretending to care for my lovely husband.

The moment his car disappeared down the long driveway, I moved. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I slipped into his study, the room that was the inner sanctum of his power. The air smelled of leather and his cologne.

Using the code I’d memorized, I disabled the alarm. My hands trembled as I booted up his computer. The password was his mother’s maiden name and his birth year—a sentimental weakness he’d have denied possessing.

I found what I was looking for: the encrypted files for the Singapore deal. I copied them onto a small, unassuming USB drive I’d bought with my pawnshop money. I also copied files on his offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland. It was more than enough to bury him.

Then, I did the hardest thing I had ever done. I picked up the phone on his desk, a secure line, and called directory inquiries. I asked for the main number for Croft Holdings.

A receptionist answered with polished efficiency.

“I need to speak to Mr. Alistair Croft,” I said, my voice shaking only slightly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Croft is unavailable. May I direct you to—”

“Tell him it’s Jennifer Morgan. And tell him I have information on Stanley Morgan’s Singapore acquisition. He’ll take the call.”

There was a long pause. I held my breath, convinced she would be dismissed. Then, a click, and a new, older, gravelly voice came on the line.

“This is Alistair Croft.”

I almost dropped the phone. “Mr. Croft… My name is Jennifer Morgan. I’m Stanley’s wife.”

“I know who you are,” he said, his tone neutral and wary.

“I have files. Documents regarding his business practices in Singapore and elsewhere. I believe you will find them… of interest.”

Another pause, longer this time. I could almost hear him thinking, calculating the angles, the possibility of a trap.

“Why?” he asked, the single word loaded with suspicion.

I took a deep breath. The truth was my only currency. I needed to say something that would make the man believe me. “Because he beats me every day. And I want him out. I want him ruined.” I said this plainly and openly, without being scared of the consequences that might erupt from this attack I was about to launch.

The silence on the other end was absolute. Then, “Where and when can we meet?” he asked without wasting any time.

An hour later, disguised in a simple coat and sunglasses, my heart pounding with a terror that was laced with wild, electric hope, I walked into the quiet, book-lined warmth of the reading room at the public library. I felt like a spy in a le Carré novel.

Alistair Croft was already there. He was in his late sixties, with a full head of silver hair and a face that was both stern and intelligent. He didn’t look like a savior; he looked like a judge. He put on glasses that had a camera installed in them. This would help him record everything that would transpire between us.

I sat opposite him and, without a word, slid the USB drive across the polished table.

He took it, his eyes never leaving my face. He saw the careful makeup that couldn’t entirely conceal the shadows under my eyes, the way I held myself with a stiffness that spoke of old injuries. He saw the faint, almost-healed split in my lip.

“Show me,” he said quietly, not wanting to lose focus on me.

I had brought the forgotten tablet inside Stanley’s study room. I plugged in the drive and opened the files, explaining what they were and what they meant. I spoke in a low, steady voice, my knowledge shocking even to me. I was no longer the victim; I was an analyst presenting a damning case.

When I finished, Croft leaned back in his chair. He looked from the tablet to my face, and for the first time, his expression softened almost imperceptibly. “This deal was going to be a huge one,” he exclaimed to himself.

“This is… exceptionally thorough, Mrs. Stanley.”

“I,” I corrected.

“Jennifer. This information is enough for a significant SEC investigation. It could land your husband in prison for a very long time.”

“I know.”

“What do you want in return?”

“Protection. A divorce. And enough money to disappear and never have to worry about him or anyone like him again.”

He studied me for a long moment. “You could have asked for more. A great deal more.”

Alistair Croft nodded slowly. A flicker of respect was in his eyes. “Very well. You have a deal. My lawyers will be in touch. You’ll be taken to a safe house tonight. My driver is outside.”

Tears of relief finally spilled down my cheeks. It was as if the heavy weight of my head had been lifted a bit. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, his voice grim. “The fun is just about to begin. I hope you are going to stay to finish this deal to the end. Because once started, you can't back out.”

He walked away from the scene immediately without waiting to hear my response and headed straight to where his car was parked. His driver drove him off.

I stared constantly until the car disappeared from my sight. I didn't have a reason to rethink it; I would not only bring down Stanley, but I would make sure he also wasted some years of his life, so that when he decided to stand on his feet, he wouldn't have any legs to carry them.