Chapter 7 - Unearthing the Past
The following morning, the autumn sunlight streamed through my living room windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The house was blissfully quiet. Sam had packed a suitcase late last night after realizing I wouldn't budge, retreating either to a hotel or back to his mother’s sprawling estate. Good riddance.
By 9:00 AM, my phone rang. It was Victoria Vance, senior partner at Vance & Associates Family Law, arguably the most ruthless and respected divorce attorney in the state.
"Elena," Victoria’s crisp, professional voice crackled through the speaker. "I’ve reviewed the preliminary documents you submitted yesterday afternoon, along with the digital records of the joint bank accounts and real estate deeds you managed to pull."
"And?" I asked, gripping my coffee mug tightly.
"And," Victoria chuckled softly, a sound of pure predatory satisfaction, "your husband and his mother are in far deeper trouble than you imagined. Not only has Sam been diverting significant marital funds—over three hundred thousand dollars over the last four years—into accounts controlled by Vanessa’s LLC, but the beach house deed you mentioned? It was never actually sold. Sam transferred half-ownership of it to Vanessa six months after your marriage."
A cold rage flared in my chest, though it was tempered by vindication. "Can we freeze the assets?"
"They are already frozen," Victoria replied smoothly. "As of 8:30 AM this morning, emergency injunctions have been filed on all joint accounts, business investments, and real estate holdings. Furthermore, because Vanessa was technically receiving financial support funded by marital assets without your consent, we can sue for full asset recovery and a disproportionate division of the remaining estate in your favor."
"Do it," I said without hesitation. "Every single cent."
"Consider it done. But be prepared, Elena. Patricia and Sam aren't going to roll over quietly. Patricia comes from old money, and she has powerful friends in local real estate and banking. They’re going to try to paint you as unstable—pointing to the cake-shaming incident at L’Étoile as evidence."
I smiled faintly, looking out the window at the rustling oak trees. "Let them try. Half the city was at that restaurant. There are thirty witnesses who saw Patricia and Vanessa humiliate me first. And as for the cake... let's just say modern high-end restaurants have security cameras covering every square inch of their private dining rooms."
Victoria let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Security footage? Elena, you are a tactical genius. Send me the restaurant's contact information; I'll subpoena the footage before lunch."
After hanging up with Victoria, I spent the next few hours diving into my architectural work, immersing myself in blueprints and structural designs. For the first time in years, my mind felt entirely uncluttered. There was no walking on eggshells, no worrying about whether Patricia would approve of my outfit or whether Sam was texting his ex behind my back.
Around 2:00 PM, my doorbell rang.
I walked to the front door, peered through the peephole, and saw Patricia standing on my porch. She looked decidedly less haughty today. Her designer suit was rumpled, her hair was unstyled, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Gone was the untouchable matriarch of high society; in her place stood a desperate, cornered woman whose house of cards was collapsing.
I unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the door open half-way, and leaned against the frame, crossing my arms.
"What do you want, Patricia?" I asked coldly.
Patricia flinched at the lack of respect, opening her mouth to snap out an insult before remembering her precarious position. She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to stop trembling.
"Elena... can we talk?" Patricia’s voice lacked its usual crisp arrogance; it sounded brittle, almost pleading. "Please. This... this madness has gone far enough. Freezing our family accounts? Threatening Sam with financial ruin? Do you have any idea what kind of scandal this will cause in our social circles?"
I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow. "Your social circles? Patricia, your son committed financial fraud, and you orchestrated a calculated public humiliation designed to break my spirit so your precious Vanessa could take my place. If anyone's reputation is about to be dragged through the mud, it’s yours and Sam's."
Patricia’s face tightened in anger, but fear quickly overtook it. She took a step forward, lowering her voice to a hissed whisper.
"Listen to me, Elena. Sam made a mistake, yes, but men are... they get confused by old attachments. Vanessa has been through a rough time—her business failed, she lost her apartment—and Sam was just trying to help an old friend. If you drop the lawsuit, if you agree to a quiet, amicable divorce with a reasonable settlement, I will ensure you walk away with our beach condo in Florida. No fuss, no courtroom battles."
I stared at her in absolute disbelief. Even now, standing amidst the ruins of her son's marriage and her own conspiracy, Patricia still believed she could negotiate from a position of superiority, offering me a crumb from her table like a master tossing a bone to a stray dog.
"A reasonable settlement?" I smiled, my eyes locking onto hers with chilling intensity. "Patricia, let me make something crystal clear to you. I don't want your crumbs. I don't want your Florida condo. I want everything the law entitles me to, and I want both you and Sam to explain to a judge why you thought you could treat me like a doormat."
Patricia’s mask completely shattered. Her face twisted into an ugly, venomous sneer.
"You ungrateful, low-class little bitch!" Patricia shrieked, pointing a shaking finger in my face. "You think you can destroy our family? You think some fancy lawyer is going to let you bleed us dry? My grandfather built this town's financial district! You are a nobody—you came from nothing, and you will leave with nothing!"
"Then I guess we'll let the judge decide who leaves with what," I said smoothly.
May you like
I stepped back and swung the heavy front door shut right in her face, engaging the deadbolt with a satisfying, metallic click. Through the wood panel, I heard Patricia scream in frustrated rage, followed by the sound of her pounding her fists against the door before stomping down the porch steps and peeling out of the driveway in her Mercedes.
I turned around, walked back to my desk, and took a deep breath. The battle lines were drawn. And I was just getting started.
