The surveillance footage.
The fight with Aubrey.
The fire. The drugs.The gun.
All the proof I need.
I smile faintly up at the hidden camera lens. A real smile. One Jack will never see coming.
Forty-Six
Ellie
The apartment is chaos. Dishes pulled out of the cupboard, cushions off the sofa, chairs overturned. The hidden camera I’ve mounted behind the air vent is live, streaming in real time to a private encrypted server I accessed through Jack’s own laptop. It’s angled to capture the entire living room—the kitchen island where we’ll stand, set to capture the raw truth that’s about to unfold.
The moment he walks in, I know it’s working.
Jack steps through the door. He’s dressed in business casual, like he’s come straight from work—expensive slacks, button-down, the faintest smirk playing at his lips.
“Ellie,” he says gently, like I’m a deer trembling in the woods. “What happened?”
“I’m glad you came,” I say, voice steady. “I want to end this.”
Jack nods slowly. “Okay... I just want you to get the help you need, Ellie. Your dad and I have both been so worried.”
I stand across from him, arms loosely folded. Not weak. Not furious. Not scared.
Just ready.
“I know what you think,” I begin. “That I’m confused. That I’ve been sick. That I’m unstable.”
Jack opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand. “Don’t. Just listen.”
His gaze flickers around the room. The nervous twitches in his jaw. Jack’s knee bouncing.
“You and my father have spent years controlling the narrative,” I say. “You kept secrets. You called it protection. You lied and told me my mother was dead when she wasn’t. You discredited her. He watched her rot in that place while he climbed the corporate ladder and smiled for press photos and you helped him cover up everything.”
“Ellie, this isn’t helping—”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to talk.”
The words crack like thunder in the silence.
Jack frowns. “Ellie, honey—”
“Don’t call me that.” I take a step forward. “Don’t speak to me like I’m fragile. I’m not. Not anymore. I remember.”
Jack goes still.
I press on. “I read the things my mother wrote in her journal. I remember the truth.”
I reach to the coffee table and grab the leather-bound journal, flipping it open. “I found this hidden under the floorboards at his penthouse—like she was nothing but a mistake to erase.” I look at my husband, steady and cold. “I found the surveillance feeds. All of them. You’ve been watching me for over a year. Listening. Recording. Even the bathroom, you sick bastard.”
Jack's face turns to stone. “That’s not—”
“Shut up,” I snap. “Every conversation. Every vulnerable moment. You used it to make me feel insane. And then you sent me to Dr. Kessler—who just happens to have ties to the menwho funded Greystone Psychiatric. Imagine that.”
He leans forward, voice tightening. “You need to be careful, Ellie. You’re making dangerous accusations.”
