"He Left His Ex-Wife the Restaurant Bill and Told Her to Clean Up. Three Months Later, Her Uncle Stunned His Wedding Guests."

It was a heavy, cream-colored card embossed in gold leaf, bound in silk ribbon, and smelling faintly of French lavender and expensive paper.

Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Vance request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter, Tiffany, to Mr. Curtis Stone.

Date: September 14th.

Location: The St. Regis Hotel, Grand Ballroom, Manhattan.

Dress Code: Black Tie.

I held the card in my hand, standing on the newly restored front porch of the Willow Creek farmhouse, and laughed out loud.

Why had they sent it?

It wasn't an oversight. In high-society circles, sending an invitation to an ex-spouse was often a calculated power play—a final, public display of victory, a polite way of saying, Look at what you lost, look at what you weren't enough for, and watch us celebrate in your face. Tiffany probably orchestrated it herself, wanting to revel in my hypothetical misery from across a sea of glittering crystal and designer gowns.

They assumed I was still huddled in a cramped studio apartment, eating takeout, wondering how to pay health insurance premiums while crying over old photo albums.

I walked inside, set the invitation down on the kitchen island next to my laptop, and opened my email.

I didn't click Decline. I clicked Accept for One.

Then I picked up the phone and dialed Marcus Vance—not the divorce lawyer Harrison, but a different Marcus Vance, a senior commercial litigator based in Seattle who also happened to specialize in corporate asset recovery and intellectual property infringement.

“Marcus,” I said when he answered on the second ring. “It’s Wendy Sinclair.”

“Wendy! Good to hear from you. How are the timber negotiations coming along?”

“Wrapped up yesterday,” I replied smoothly. “The escrow funds are clearing into the corporate account by Friday. Which brings me to the second reason I’m calling.”

“I’m listening.”

“I need you to review a patent assignment portfolio from Thorne Technologies. Specifically, the core biometric encryption protocol filed back in 2018 under Curtis’s name, using capital from my mother’s estate trust, while we were legally married.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. When Marcus spoke again, his voice had dropped its casual warmth, replaced by the razor-sharp focus of a predator smelling blood.

“Are we talking about filing an injunction?”

“Not yet,” I said, walking to the window to watch the river catch the afternoon sun. “An injunction makes noise too early. I want to wait until September fourteenth.”