At Our Twins' Funeral, My Husband Arrived Arm-in-Arm with His Mistress and Publicly Branded Me a Terrible Mother in Front of Their Coffins. When I Begged Him to Stop, He Slapped Me and Murmured, "Say One More Word... and You'll Join Them." He Thought He Had Buried the Truth Alongside Our Children. He Was Wrong.

The interrogation room at the state police headquarters was small, windowless, and oppressively quiet.

The walls were painted a dull, institutional gray, and the only light came from an overhead fluorescent fixture that hummed with a low, agonizing vibration.

Victor sat at the metal table in his rumpled designer suit, his hands cuffed to an eyelet bolted directly into the center of the wood. The arrogant, untouchable billionaire of three days ago was entirely gone. In his place sat a hollow, sweating shell of a man whose hair was disheveled and whose eyes darted frantically toward the two-way mirror on the wall.

The heavy steel door swung open, and Detective Miller walked in, tossing a thick manila folder onto the table before pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite Victor.

"Let's go over it one more time, Mr. Vance," Detective Miller said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. "Just so we're crystal clear on what the state has on you."

"I want my attorney," Victor muttered, his voice hoarse and cracked. "I'm not saying a word without legal representation."

"Your attorney is currently advising Chloe Sterling," the detective replied smoothly. "And guess what, Victor? Ms. Sterling has already decided she's not going down for life while you sit pretty. She signed a full confession forty-five minutes ago."

Victor flinched as if struck by a physical blow. "She... she lied. Chloe doesn't know anything."

"She knows everything," Detective Miller countered, sliding a printed transcript across the table. "She detailed how you promised her half of the corporate shares once the children were out of the picture. She even gave us the location of the offshore account where you funneled the liquid capital to prepare for your little getaway to the Cayman Islands."

Victor stared at the transcript, his hands trembling violently against the handcuffs.

"It was a business decision," Victor whispered defensively, his voice dropping into a pathetic, desperate whine. "The company was tanking. The expansion required capital we didn't have. Those children... they were just complications. Elena was too soft on them anyway."

On the other side of the two-way mirror, standing in the darkened observation room, I listened to every single word through my headset.

My fingers clenched into tight fists, my nails digging into my palms so hard it drew a bead of blood, but I didn't make a sound.

"Complications," Detective Miller repeated, his voice dripping with absolute disgust. "They were four years old, Mr. Vance. They were your own flesh and blood."

"Elena will understand," Victor blurted out, a pathetic thread of delusion clinging to his shattered mind. "She loves me. If you let me talk to her—if you bring her in here—she'll drop the charges. She's weak. She always caves when I tell her to."