Chapter 4 - The Art of the PurgeThe rain beat a relentless tattoo against the soundproof glass of my office as I reviewed the consolidated asset reports.
My office door opened without a knock. Marcus walked in, holding a thick leather folder, a rare smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Word on the street is that Victoria’s defense fund is bleeding out," Marcus said, tossing the folder onto my desk. "Her personal accounts have been frozen pending the SEC investigation, and her high-priced legal team just filed a motion to withdraw as counsel due to 'non-payment of retainer fees.'"
I didn't look up from my tablet. "And Michael?"
"Oh, that's the best part," Marcus chuckled, pulling up a chair. "Remember that luxury Tribeca sublet he was living in? Evicted this morning. His landlord threw his designer suits out onto the sidewalk in black plastic garbage bags. He’s currently crashing on the couch of a junior analyst—the very same analyst he demoted three months ago to secure a promotion for himself."
A bitter, humorless smile touched my lips. Karma had a way of balancing ledgers with terrifying precision.
"Did he try to contact my father?" I asked.
"He tried," Marcus nodded. "Called the Vance Group headquarters twenty times yesterday. Security didn't even forward the calls. Your father sent down a single message: 'Take it up with your wife.' Of course, he forgot you're no longer his wife in the eyes of the law, once that signature clears family court tomorrow."
"Let's make sure family court is expedited," I said, closing my tablet. "I want the final decree signed before the weekend. No alimony, no asset sharing, no shared liabilities. The prenup we signed before our modest civil ceremony thirteen years ago—back when he had nothing—protects every cent of my personal trust. He walked into our marriage with a negative bank balance and a cheap suit, and that is exactly how he leaves it."
"Done," Marcus said, standing up. "By the way, there's someone downstairs waiting in the private reception room. Someone who heard about the leadership shakeup and wants to offer a token of... goodwill."
I raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Jonathan Vance. Your cousin from the London branch."
May you like
I paused. Jonathan. My cousin had always been the ambitious, ruthless shark of the extended family—the one who managed our European acquisitions and viewed corporate politics as a blood sport.
"Send him up," I said.
