A Voicemail From My Future Self Warned Me My Husband Wanted Me Dead

The night before my business trip, I get a voicemail from my future self: don't go, the hurricane will kill you—your husband and best friend planned it. For five years I bankrolled Rowan's company and trusted Quinn like a sister. Now they've booked me a death-trap motel while sleeping in my bed. So I fly to Maui instead, max out his cards, leak the security footage, trigger the prenup, and take his company. When he crawls back begging, I smile. You deserved this.