Victor’s jaw tightened. “Daniel was weak. He chose you, and look what happened.”

I wanted to snap the cane across his face.

Instead, I folded the check once, twice, and slid it into my drawer.

“Thank you,” I said.

“For what?”

“For proving you’re scared.”

He laughed, but his eyes flickered.

That check carried routing numbers. Corporate account links. A signature authorization from a shell company already named in Daniel’s files.

They had chosen the wrong widow.

For two weeks, I played helpless.

I let Evelyn tell reporters I was “fragile.”

I let Victor petition the court to freeze Daniel’s assets.

I even let their private investigator follow me to physical therapy, to the cemetery, to the pharmacy.

He never noticed the federal agent sitting in the car two spaces behind him.

Owen Rusk finally talked after prosecutors offered protection.

He said Victor hired him through a fixer. The order was simple: hit Daniel’s car on the empty road after the reception. Kill Daniel. Leave me injured enough to look like a tragic survivor, not a witness.

But Owen added one detail that made the lead prosecutor go still.

“The woman paid extra,” he said. “The mother. She said if the bride died too, no one would miss her.”