As Jonathan created his narrative of crocodile tears, he never expected to see my figure striding confidently toward him across the dimly lit tarmac. The moment was one for the books. My heart pounded—not from fear or adrenaline anymore—but from the sheer, overwhelming sense of vindication.
The FBI agents flanked me on either side, their expressions a cocktail of surprise and respect. They had been skeptical when I first approached them with my suspicions about Jonathan. After all, I was the “Tech Queen” of Miami, a fortress of innovation and invincibility. Who would dare attempt to bring me down?
But Jonathan’s ambition knew no bounds. I had seen the shift in his demeanor over the past few months: the hushed phone calls, the secretive business meetings, the faintest whiff of impatience when he thought I wasn’t looking. Yet, I needed irrefutable evidence of his intentions, a reason for the FBI to believe that this was more than just another high-society marital dispute.
