Daniel listened, stunned. “You mean my mother staged this?” he asked, hurt laced with disbelief. Mia didn’t answer with an accusation; she showed transcripts and timestamps. He held the evidence in his hands like a mirror—one that reflected his mother in a clarity he hadn’t wanted. His face was small and troubled.
In the weeks after the wedding, Mia kept working. Her professional life pressed forward. She poured evenings into mock presentations and financial models. It was the kind of steady work that rewarded patience and detail, and also the qualities the Whitmore game had underestimated.