Chapter 2 - The Audit on 4th StreetBy 8:30 a.m., the bright morning sun flooded the formal living room of my three-hundred-square-meter penthouse.
Two uniformed officers from the Seattle Police Department stood near the kitchen island. Officer Miller—a stern, broad-shouldered woman with a notepad—was taking my official statement while her partner stood near the front door, keeping Mark and Diane separated near the hallway coat rack.
Diane was weeping loudly into a paper towel, her voice muffled as she tried to explain to the officer that she was "just a concerned mother trying to help her son's marriage."
"Mrs. Sterling," Officer Miller said softly, looking at the clear, reddened handprint blooming across my cheek, which her partner had already photographed for evidence. "Do you wish to press formal charges for misdemeanor domestic assault?"
"Yes," I answered without a second of hesitation. "I want a full criminal filing, and I want an immediate emergency trespass order removing both Diane Vance and Mark Vance from this property."
"RACHEL!" Mark shouted from the hallway, trying to take a step forward before the male officer blocked him with a broad arm. "I LIVE HERE! I'm your husband!"
"Your name is not on the deed, Mark," Officer Miller corrected flatly, reviewing the digital property records I had pulled up on my tablet. "This property was purchased solely by Rachel Sterling two years before your marriage. Under Washington state law, as the sole property owner, she has the legal right to revoke your residency immediately following a domestic violence incident."
"I'll give you two hours to pack a single suitcase, Mark," I spoke, walking across the hardwood floor until I stood three feet from him. "Officer Miller will supervise you. Anything you leave behind will be packed by professional movers and delivered to your mother’s apartment in Tacoma."
Mark stared at me, his eyes wide, his lips trembling. The arrogant, comfortable husband who had spent three years coasting on my multi-million-dollar tech salary had vanished. In his place sat a terrified, broke thirty-four-year-old man who realized his golden ride was over.
"Rachel... please," Mark whimpered, tears finally spilling over his lashes. "We can talk about this. Don't do this over a small argument!"
"It wasn't an argument, Mark. It was a slap," I said deadpan. "And while you pack your suitcase... my forensic accounting team is going to audit the secondary joint account."
Mark went paper-white. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like he was about to vomit directly onto the rug.
"What... what joint account?" he stammered, his voice cracking into high, pathetic squeaks.
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"The secondary operations account I opened for our household expenses," I revealed, pulling a thick leather folder from my desk drawer. "The one where forty thousand dollars vanished over the last four months... the money you told me went toward 'home renovations' that never happened."
I turned my back on him, walking into my private home office, shutting the heavy mahogany door behind me, locking the deadbolt with a sharp, heavy CLICK.
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