Chapter 6 - GHOSTS FROM THE PAST
The name hung in the air of my study like a bad smell.
Ethan.
Five years of complete radio silence. Five years since he packed his bags, looked down his nose at my late-night coding sessions, and sneered that I was wasting my life on a pipe dream. Five years since he took a cash settlement in lieu of future equity—a decision that currently cost him roughly ten million dollars in missed upside.
“Miller,” I said sharply into the intercom, my voice tight. “What is Ethan doing here?”
“He says he saw the TechCrunch article about the acquisition,” Miller replied, his tone guarded. “He’s claiming he’s still legally entitled to a spousal share of your assets because of a clerical error in our 2021 tax separation filings. He’s standing out at the gate with a lawyer.”
A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips. A clerical error? My legal team at Sterling & Vance had airtight separation agreements drafted by some of the most expensive corporate attorneys on the East Coast. Nothing slipped past Linda Vance.
“Let him in, Miller,” I instructed calmly. “Drive him up to the front steps. Don’t let him past the foyer.”
“Understood, Ms. Monroe.”
I stood up, wincing slightly as my fractured ribs pulled against my muscles. I walked over to the full-length mirror, inspecting my appearance. I wore a tailored black cashmere turtleneck that concealed my shoulder brace, dark designer trousers, and my hair pulled back into a sleek, no-nonsense ponytail. I didn't look like the broken, timid woman who had fallen down my parents' stairs three weeks ago. I looked like a tech mogul.
Ten minutes later, the heavy front door opened, and Miller ushered Ethan into the grand foyer.
He hadn’t aged well. The arrogant smirk that had defined our marriage was replaced by a desperate, sweaty panic. His designer suit was slightly rumpled, his hair thinning at the crown, and his eyes darted around the soaring ceilings and imported marble floors of my foyer like a starving animal sniffing out meat.
When he saw me walking down the floating staircase, his eyes locked onto mine, widening in absolute shock.
“Maren?” he breathed, his voice cracking. “Good god... is this really your house?”
“It was bought and paid for before CodeStream was even acquired, Ethan,” I said, stopping halfway down the stairs, looking down at him the way an entomologist looks at an interesting beetle. “What do you want?”
Ethan swallowed hard, hastily adjusting his tie as he tried to regain some semblance of his old swagger. He took two steps forward, stopping at the base of the stairs.
“Maren, look... I saw the news. Ten million dollars,” he started, flashing a greasy, nostalgic smile that made my stomach churn. “I always knew you had it in you. Back when we were married, I supported your early coding work, remember? I bought that server rack for your apartment back in 2018.”
“You bought that server rack with my credit card, Ethan,” I reminded him smoothly. “And you forced me to pay you back in installments while you spent our savings on golf club memberships.”
His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovered, stepping closer. “Water under the bridge, Maren! We were young, we were figuring things out. But the reason I’m here... well, my attorney pointed out a very interesting technicality in our 2021 divorce decree. The intellectual property rights for CodeStream were filed while we were technically still legally married under a shared residency clause in Delaware.”
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I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes!” Ethan nodded eagerly, sensing victory. “Which means, legally speaking, half of those ten million dollars belong to me as marital property. Now, I’m a reasonable man. I don’t want to drag you through a messy public court battle, especially with your family already in such a scandal. If you wire five million to my account by tomorrow morning, we can settle this quietly, and I’ll even let you keep the house.”
