After my father-in-law’s funeral, my unemployed wife inherited $379 million. Out of nowhere, she asked for a divorce, saying, “You’re no longer of any use to me.” I responded, “Don’t end up regretting this.”

I signed. The scratching of the pen echoed in the silence. I didn’t read the clauses. I didn’t fight for the Honda or the furniture. I just signed my name, pushed the papers back to her, and watched as she snatched them up with the greed of a starving animal.

She thought I was an idiot who had given up. She thought she was the predator in this scenario.

But there was something Kimberly didn’t know. A secret buried under months of hospice care, whispered conversations, and the rattling breath of a dying patriarch.

I wasn’t the prey. I was the trap.

The deception had begun three months ago, on a Tuesday evening that smelled of antiseptic and rain.

Arthur Harris was a titan of industry, a man who had built a shipping empire from a single tugboat. But in the end, cancer didn’t care about his net worth. It had whittled him down to a frail skeleton in a rented hospital bed in his study.

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