Chapter 2 - THE DECONSTRUCTION OF A LIAR
By noon, the in-laws were gone, deposited safely into a luxury suite at the Windsor Residence downtown—far enough away to keep them from ruining my peace, but close enough to satisfy the technical requirements of familial care without me having to lift a finger.
I spent the afternoon at my attorney’s office.
Marcus Vance, a man whose silver hair and shark-like demeanor had terrified corporate executives for decades, sat behind his mahogany desk reading the initial asset freeze report with a look of profound appreciation.
"Well, Mrs. Norris," Marcus murmured, sliding his reading glasses down the bridge of his nose. "I must say, in twenty-eight years of family law, I rarely see a spouse dismantle a hostile takeover with such surgical precision."
"He didn't think I was paying attention, Marcus," I said, sitting gracefully across from him with my hands folded in my lap. "Everett spent years trying to merge my trust holdings into his corporate venture, Morrison Industries. He assumed that by banishing me to domestic isolation with his parents while he fled the country, I would be too exhausted to notice the systematic draining of our liquid assets."
"And the black cards?"
"Declined as of nine this morning," I replied smoothly. "Along with his corporate American Express, his personal lines of credit, and access to the shared investment portfolios. As far as the financial world is concerned, Everett Morrison is currently stranded in an Atlanta airport terminal with a maxed-out debit card and a very expensive piece of jewelry he can't pay for."
Marcus let out a low, gravelly laugh. "Oh, the jewelry store manager is going to love that conversation. What are our next steps? He’ll be landing in London—or wherever he actually went—within twelve hours. He’ll realize the trap almost immediately."
"Let him land," I said, a cold smile touching my lips. "Let him try to check into his five-star hotel. Let him try to wine and dine his little mistress on empty promises and bounced transactions. I want him to sweat. I want him to feel every single ounce of panic before we drop the divorce papers on his head."
"And the house?" Marcus asked, tapping a pen against the desk. "The estate is under your maiden name, correct?"
"Exclusively mine. Purchased three years before we married, protected by a bulletproof prenuptial agreement that Everett signed under the supervision of your own firm."
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"Then he has no claim to the primary residence, nor to the trust," Marcus nodded, picking up a fresh stack of documents. "I'll have the divorce petition filed by morning. We'll cite adultery, financial malfeasance, and abandonment. We'll strip him of his corporate title at Morrison Industries as well, since your family trust holds sixty-five percent of the voting shares."
I stood up, buttoning my wool coat. "Do it, Marcus. And make sure the papers are waiting for him at his hotel before he even has time to unpack his mistress's bags."
