«Tell my husband and mother-in-law that I died…

Emma thought of old Mr. Simmons from next door—grumpy but always observant. «I’ll have to thank him,» she murmured.
«You will,» Morris nodded. «But first, are you strong enough to move to a safe house?»
«Yes,» Emma said resolutely. «I’m ready.»

The safe house was a small, cozy flat in a quiet London suburb. The police provided essentials—clothes, tech, everything. Here, Emma would stay until the operation concluded.
«How long will it take?» she asked Morris.
«A while,» he replied. «We need airtight evidence to ensure they can’t wriggle free.»

At first, Emma felt like a ghost. She was dead to the world—friends, colleagues, everyone believed it. Online, her architecture firm posted condolences. She spent days watching footage from cameras in her flat. James and Sophie settled in shamelessly, sleeping in her bed, eating from her plates, trying on her clothes.
«This bookcase has to go,» Sophie said, eyeing Emma’s shelves. «It’s so dreary.»
«Absolutely,» James agreed. «We’ll redo the furniture, the whole place. Make it ours.»

Margaret visited daily, directing Sophie like a general. «This will be my room,» she declared, inspecting Emma’s study. «When you two marry, I’ll move in. It’ll be convenient.» Sophie nodded, not daring to object.

«Aren’t you afraid she’ll try to poison you one day?» Emma whispered at the screen.

By the third week of her «death,» Morris brought big news. «They’re speeding things up,» he said. «James forged your signature on documents, trying to backdate a power of attorney through a dodgy notary.»
«How soon can you arrest them?» Emma asked, impatience rising.
«In three days, James becomes the official heir. Then we can charge them with everything—attempted murder, fraud, the lot.»
«I want to be there,» Emma said firmly. «When you arrest them. I need to see their faces.»
Morris hesitated. «That’s against protocol.»
«I have to see their plan collapse,» Emma insisted. «Or I won’t move on.»

He sighed. «Fine, but you’ll stay in the flat across the hall, under full protection.»

Emma nodded, feeling alive for the first time in weeks. Justice was near.

Margaret Thompson stood before her wardrobe mirror, admiring her reflection. The navy silk dress fit her perfectly, accentuating her still-slim figure at 60. She adjusted the collar, mentally praising her purchase. This dress was chosen for the notary visit, where James would officially claim the inheritance.
«Everything worked out even better than planned,» she whispered, slipping on pearl earrings. No scandals, no messy divorce, just an unfortunate accident.

Margaret had never liked Emma. From the start, the architect with her fancy degree seemed wrong for James—too independent, too ambitious. Women like that don’t prioritize their husbands. Now, James would have Sophie, she thought, fastening a necklace. A proper woman—soft, compliant, knowing her place.

She recalled introducing James to Sophie two years ago at her friend Nina Davis’s birthday. James was polite but distant, loyal to Emma. But Margaret persisted, praising Sophie, inviting her over when Emma was out, engineering moments for James to see her virtues.
«Val, isn’t it odd?» Nina once asked. «James is married.»
«Marriage isn’t a life sentence, dear,» Margaret replied. «Especially a bad one.»

James didn’t fall for Sophie right away. But as tensions with Emma grew—her earning more, resisting him, the miscarriage—Sophie became his confidante, then his lover. Margaret retrieved her favourite gold-and-ruby bracelet, a gift from her late husband. Today was a triumph. She’d eliminated the insufferable daughter-in-law and secured James’s future…