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.”

He reached under his pillow and pulled out a key. A small, silver key that looked innocuous but felt heavy with consequence.

“The real will is with Martin Lee. Not the firm’s junior associate who handles the day-to-day. Martin. My old war buddy. He’s holding the document that actually matters. And Ben… I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything, Arthur.”

“Let her show her true colors,” he said, his voice trembling with the weight of the betrayal. “When I go, she will turn on you. She will try to discard you. Don’t fight her. Let her sign the papers. Let her think she’s won. Promise me.”

I gripped his frail hand. “I promise.”

“Good,” he sighed, closing his eyes, the energy draining out of him. “Because some lessons, son… some lessons cost more than others.”

Two weeks after the funeral, the charade reached its fever pitch.

I was living out of a suitcase in the guest room, while Kimberly treated the house like a staging ground for her new life. She was manic, fueled by the adrenaline of imminent wealth.

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