"Do you even know who my husband is, Caleb?"
My question landed like a slap across his face. For a moment, confusion replaced his smug expression. That brief flash of uncertainty told me everything I needed to know—his information was incomplete.
Caleb recovered quickly, scoffing. "Some nobody you picked up to save face, I'm sure. A placeholder while you worked your way into my uncle's bed."
I crossed my arms. "You should really verify your facts before making accusations."
"I know enough." He stepped closer, jabbing a finger toward me. "You're a homewrecker, just like your mother. It's in your blood."
The familiar insult washed over me, losing its sting after years of repetition. I'd heard it all my life—how I was destined to repeat Genevieve's mistakes, how moral corruption ran in my veins.
"Are we done here?" I asked coolly. "Mrs. Dubois needs rest."
