Chapter 4 - The Aftermath at the Firm
By 4:00 PM, I was sitting in Darcy’s corner office on the thirty-fifth floor of a downtown skyscraper, watching the Chicago skyline dissolve into a bruised twilight of gray clouds and neon lights.
Darcy slid a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea across her mahogany desk. "Well, your husband’s credit cards just declined at a gas station in Lincoln Park. His corporate email has already been locked out by his HR department—turns out, part of our asset-preservation motion included notifying his firm’s compliance officer about the embezzlement scheme he was running through your joint tax filings."
I took a slow sip of the tea, letting the warmth spread through my chest. "He was skimming from our joint accounts?"
"For over eighteen months," Darcy said, tapping a stylus against her tablet. "He was funneling corporate bonuses and personal savings into an offshore account registered under his mother’s maiden name. We flagged it during our initial financial audit this morning. Julian isn't just facing a messy divorce; he’s looking at a federal tax evasion audit and possible corporate fraud charges if he doesn't cooperate with our property settlement."
A strange, quiet thrill washed over me. For five years, Julian had convinced me that I was financially inept, that my career in architectural design was just a "cute little hobby," and that without his guidance, I would be entirely helpless.
"How long until the final decree?" I asked.
"Normally? Six months to a year," Darcy smiled wolfishly. "Given that we caught him on tape committing domestic intimidation, secured an immediate freezing of all hidden assets, and proved you are the sole deed-holder of the primary residence? I give him three weeks before his defense attorney begs us for a settlement just to keep him out of a jail cell."
My phone buzzed on the desk.
Call from: Julian
I looked at the screen, watched the burner number flash for three seconds, and then pressed the red decline button.
"Blocked?" Darcy asked.
"Blocked," I confirmed, sliding the phone face down.
"Good. Now, let’s talk about your life post-Julian. What’s the first thing you’re going to do with your freedom?"
May you like
I looked back out the window at the sprawling expanse of Chicago—a city I had lived in for a decade, but had only truly inhabited for the last twenty-four hours.
"I’m going to redesign every single room in that condo," I said softly. "And I’m going to start with the kitchen."
