Chapter 5 - The Deposition and the Mistress
Three weeks later, the air in the conference room of my lawyer’s high-rise office was thick with tension. The mahogany table felt like a battlefield.
I sat next to my attorney, a ruthless bulldog of a woman named Sarah Vance. I wore a tailored white suit, my hair perfectly blown out, the bruise on my cheek having faded to a faint yellow shadow. I looked like a woman in complete control.
Across from us sat Marcus and his lawyer, a cheap, sweaty man named Higgins who looked like he bought his suits out of the trunk of a car. Marcus looked atrocious. He had lost weight, his eyes were bloodshot, and he kept anxiously tapping his pen against the table. The freezing of his accounts meant he couldn't afford top-tier representation, and it showed.
“Let’s be reasonable,” Higgins began, wiping his forehead. “My client is willing to accept a 50/50 split of the marital assets, and joint custody of the child. In exchange, we won’t drag your client's postpartum mental state through a public trial.”
Sarah Vance actually laughed out loud. It was a sharp, terrifying sound.
“Mr. Higgins,” Sarah said, leaning forward. “There are no marital assets. The house belongs to the Claire Thorne Family Trust. The joint account was drained by your client to pay for offshore gambling debts. And as for custody, your client is currently facing felony domestic battery charges.”
“Those charges are exaggerated!” Marcus snapped, slamming his hand on the table. “She tripped!”
I didn't flinch. I slowly opened my leather briefcase and pulled out a single, glossy photograph. I slid it across the long table until it stopped right in front of Marcus.
It was a picture of a beautiful, twenty-two-year-old blonde woman. She was carrying a designer handbag—one I had specifically noted missing from Marcus’s credit card statements—and she was using a key to enter the luxury Seattle loft Marcus had been renting.
Marcus turned the color of ash.
“Her name is Chloe,” I said softly, my voice laced with venom. “A barista at the coffee shop near your office. You’ve been funding her lifestyle for two years. Which is fascinating, considering you claimed poverty when it came to buying Lily’s crib.”
“That’s… that’s a lie,” Marcus stammered, though his eyes darted frantically around the room.
“Is it?” I asked. I pulled out a second stack of papers. “Because Chloe was very cooperative when my private investigator approached her. Apparently, you told her you were single. A wealthy tech investor. When she found out you were married, broke, and facing federal fraud charges, she was more than happy to hand over every text message, email, and gift receipt to save herself from being implicated as an accessory.”
Higgins slowly put his pen down. He looked at Marcus, his face filled with disgust. “You told me there were no other women, and no financial irregularities.”
“I want full legal and physical custody of Lily,” I stated, my eyes locking onto Marcus’s terrified gaze. “I want you to waive all rights to alimony or a financial settlement. You will walk away with nothing. If you don't sign these papers today, I will personally hand this dossier of your wire fraud and forgery to the FBI before lunch.”
Marcus looked at his lawyer, desperate for a way out. But Higgins just shook his head and pushed the divorce papers toward his client.
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“Sign them, Marcus,” Higgins muttered. “Or you’ll spend the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary.”
With a shaking hand, the man who had once ordered me to cook for him while I bled, picked up the pen and signed away his daughter, his marriage, and his life.
