Chapter 3 - The Counter-Attack
By Monday afternoon, the corporate office of Vanguard Media & Logistics—where I served as the Vice President of Operations—was humming with normal business activity. But inside my glass-walled corner office, the atmosphere was electric.
Sitting across from me was Victoria Vance, my attorney. Dressed in a sharp charcoal pantsuit with her silver-streaked hair pulled back into a severe knot, she looked over the financial statements I had printed out.
“This is a goldmine,” Victoria said, tapping a red-lacquered fingernail against a spreadsheet detailing Julian’s secret expenditures over the last eighteen months. “Not only did he drain nearly forty thousand dollars from our joint savings to fund his high-stakes cryptocurrency hobby, but he also registered a shell company using marital assets to funnel cash to his brother’s real estate firm.”
“Can we freeze that shell company?” I asked, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the mahogany desk.
“It’s already done,” Victoria smiled thinly, a predator catching the scent of blood in the water. “Furthermore, because you were the sole breadwinner during his two-year unemployment period—a period where he was legally and financially capable of working but chose to sit at home playing golf—we can petition the court for a disproportionate distribution of the remaining marital estate. In plain English, Maren? He’s going to walk away from this house with nothing.”
My phone buzzed on the desk. An incoming text message from an unknown number.
Please, Maren. Let’s talk. Mom is crying hysterically, and Ethan is threatening to pull funding from the family trust if this goes public. Name your terms.
I glanced at the message, scoffed softly, and slid the phone across the desk toward Victoria.
“Should I reply?” I asked.
Victoria glanced at the screen, picked up her sleek leather briefcase, and snapped it shut with a definitive click.
“Never negotiate with a drowning man when you’re the one holding the anchor, Maren. Let him squirm.”
Later that evening, I drove back to the main estate—not to join Julian, but to pack the remaining clothes and essentials for myself and the kids before moving us into a secure, gated penthouse apartment downtown that I had leased that afternoon.
As I pulled my SUV up to the front entrance, I noticed a sleek black sedan parked haphazardly in the circular drive. It belonged to Ethan.
When I stepped through the double front doors, the sound of raised voices echoed from the formal living room.
“You absolute idiot!” Ethan was shouting, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The board at the real estate syndicate caught wind of your financial mismanagement! They’re launching an internal compliance review because your name is tied to my corporate accounts!”
Julian was pacing frantically across the hardwood floor, holding a glass of scotch that was sloshing over the rim. “It’s Maren’s fault! She’s vindictive! She’s gone completely insane over a harmless joke!”
“A joke?” Selina chimed in from the velvet armchair, her arms crossed defensively over her chest, looking far less composed than she had at the pool party. “Julian, your wife just subpoenaed my personal bank records! She claims my wedding jewelry was purchased using embezzled family funds!”
I stepped into the living room, leaning casually against the doorframe, my arms crossed over my chest.
“And your lawyer is going to have a wonderful time explaining why a twenty-four-year-old fashion design student owns a fifty-thousand-dollar diamond tennis bracelet bought with corporate tax-evasion credits,” I added smoothly.
All three of them whipped around. Julian’s face turned the color of a bruised plum.
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“Maren!” he roared, taking a step toward me. “Get out of my house!”
“Correction, Julian,” I said, stepping fully into the room and pulling a freshly printed legal document from my tote bag. “This house was purchased using an inheritance explicitly gifted to me by my late grandfather—an inheritance your name was never added to. Here is your thirty-day eviction notice. Pack your designer clothes, pack your golf clubs, and find a cheap motel. Because by the end of the week, the sheriff will be here to change the locks permanently.”
