Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
Word count: ~1,500 words
The shock on Adrián’s face quickly morphed into outright fury when he realized I wasn’t bluffing.
“You’re going to ruin me?” Adrián hissed, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper as Marcus stepped out of the apartment, leaving the front door cracked open. “You’re going to destroy my career, my reputation, and our family over a stupid trip? Do you have any idea what happens to my position at the firm if a messy divorce and financial audit hit the board of directors?”
“Your position at the firm?” I arched an eyebrow, leaning back against the kitchen counter while keeping Sofía secure in her wrap. “Adrián, your position at the firm was terminated thirty minutes before you walked through that front door.”
He blinked, processing the words slowly. “What are you talking about? I’m the senior vice president of regional operations! They can’t just fire me—”
“They didn't fire you. They suspended your corporate credentials indefinitely pending a federal investigation into unauthorized subsidiary shell accounts and the embezzlement of regional marketing funds,” I recited smoothly, quoting directly from the legal notification email I had cc’d to the company’s general counsel earlier that morning. “Turns out, when you use corporate letterhead and company wire codes to fund romantic European getaways for your marketing director, the compliance department tends to take notice once someone hands them a three-hundred-page forensic audit.”
Adrián stared at me as if I were speaking an alien language. The reality of what had happened—what I had systematically and ruthlessly executed while he was drinking champagne in Paris—was finally crashing down on his skull with the weight of an anchor.
“You… you planned this,” he whispered, horror dawning in his dark eyes. “While I was away… you were setting a trap.”
“You left me alone with a sick toddler and a newborn baby to go sleep with another woman, Adrián,” I said, my voice hardening into steel. “Did you honestly think I was just going to sit in the dark knitting baby blankets while you bled our accounts dry?”
He lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the kitchen counter with both hands, his knuckles turning white. “I’ll fight you! I have access to the best corporate lawyers in the city! I’ll drag this out for ten years! I’ll make sure you don’t get a single dime of alimony, and I’ll sue for full custody of the girls just to make sure you suffer!”
The threat hung in the kitchen air, heavy and poisonous.
For a fraction of a second, a cold spike of fear brushed against my ribs. Full custody. The thought of anyone taking my daughters away—especially a man who couldn't even be bothered to hold a baby for five minutes—made my maternal instincts flare into blinding rage.
Before I could answer him, the front door swung open wider.
Marcus Vance stepped back into the apartment. Behind him walked a tall, distinguished-looking man with silver-streaked hair, wearing an impeccably tailored navy suit and holding a thick leather briefcase.
Arthur Sterling.
My father’s longtime personal attorney and the senior partner at Sterling & Vance Corporate Law.
Adrián physically recoiled as Arthur stepped past him into the kitchen, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses and looking around the apartment as if inspecting a dilapidated warehouse.
“Arthur?” Adrián choked out, recognizing the name immediately. Arthur Sterling didn’t handle standard divorces; he handled high-net-worth corporate litigation, hostile takeovers, and federal white-collar defense cases for multi-million-dollar conglomerates. “What are you doing here? You represent the family estate!”
Arthur stopped by the kitchen table, opened his briefcase, and pulled out a single, neatly folded document.
“I did represent your family estate, Adrián,” Arthur said, his voice smooth, aristocratic, and utterly devoid of warmth. “And now, I represent Mariana exclusively in the complete dissolution of your marriage, the emergency freezing of all marital and corporate assets, and the immediate seizure of any property purchased using commuted corporate funds.”
Arthur laid the paper flat on the mahogany table right where Adrián’s suitcase had been dropped minutes earlier.
“Sign the temporary restraining order and the asset relinquishment accord, Adrián,” Arthur advised calmly. “And save yourself the embarrassment of being served with a federal subpoena by a U.S. marshal while sitting at your office desk tomorrow morning—which, as your wife pointed out, you no longer have.”
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Adrián looked from Arthur to me, his chest heaving as he realized he was completely checkmated. There was no escape hatch, no corporate bailout, no smooth-talking way out of this corner.
He had built a house of cards on lies, arrogance, and embezzlement, and I had simply kicked out the bottom brick.
