Chapter 3 - Paper Trails and Pretty Interns
The law offices of Vance, Sterling & Croft occupied the forty-fifth floor of a gleaming tower overlooking Millennium Park. Arthur Vance had been my father’s corporate counsel for nearly thirty years; he was a man who handled divorces the way surgeons handled malignant tumors—swiftly, mercilessly, and with sterile precision.
"He's been sloppy, Emily," Arthur said, sliding a thick manila folder across the mahogany conference table.
I was dressed in an ivory silk blouse and a tailored black pencil skirt, my hair swept into an elegant chignon. Sitting next to Arthur, sipping sparkling water, I looked nothing like the exhausted woman who had stared at a shattered mug four hours ago.
"How sloppy?" I asked, opening the dossier.
"Daniel thought he was being clever," Arthur explained, tapping a manicured finger against a spreadsheet. "Over the past fourteen months, he authorized three separate bonuses to Chloe Davenport, his junior marketing associate. Combined, they total nearly eighty thousand dollars. Well outside standard company compensation brackets for a first-year associate."
I skimmed the dates. Each bonus corresponded almost perfectly to a weekend Daniel had claimed he was "on a mandatory executive retreat" in Denver or Scottsdale.
"There's more," Arthur continued, his eyes hardening behind rimless spectacles. "Three months ago, a shell LLC called 'Lakeshore Creative Holdings' leased a high-end luxury loft in the West Loop. The guarantor on the corporate lease? Daniel Mercer, using the discretionary operating account your father funded to help Daniel kickstart his boutique investment arm."
I leaned back in the leather chair, feeling a bizarre urge to applaud. "He used my father's money to pay his mistress's rent."
"Technically, it was co-mingled marital capital under your trust agreement," Arthur noted. "Which means it constitutes fraudulent dissipation of marital assets. In Illinois, judges take a very dim view of an unfaithful spouse using marital funds to finance an extramarital lifestyle. We can freeze the account by noon tomorrow."
"Don't," I said smoothly.
Arthur paused, raising an eyebrow. "Emily?"
"If we freeze it now, Daniel will scurry into damage control. He'll lawyer up, play the remorseful husband, and try to settle before anyone in our social circle catches wind," I said, my voice dripping with icy calm. "The Mercer Group's annual charity gala is this Friday evening at the Drake Hotel. He's expecting to be named the keynote speaker and take over the Harrison account—which, as you know, only happened because my father vouched for him."
Arthur’s mouth slowly curled into a predatory grin. "You want to let him walk out onto the tightrope before we cut the cord."
"I want the spotlight to be blinding when he falls," I corrected. "I want full audits run on every transaction linked to Lakeshore Creative. Subpoena the building’s security logs, parking passes, and keycard access. If Chloe Davenport slept there, I want the digital footprint down to the minute."
"Consider it done," Arthur said, pulling a pen from his breast pocket. "What about the prenuptial agreement?"
"My father insisted on an infidelity clause, remember?" I tapped the corner of the contract. "Daniel signed it with tears in his eyes, promising he would never look at another woman. If breach of fidelity is proven with clear financial dissipation, he leaves with what he brought into the marriage."
"Which was?"
"Two suits, a mountain of student debt, and a leased Honda Civic," I replied evenly.
Leaving Arthur’s office, my phone rang. It was Daniel again. This time, I answered.
"Emily! God, thank God," his voice spilled out, panicked and breathless. "Where are you? I came back to the apartment, but your car was gone. Your clothes are still here, but... Em, please. We need to sit down. Chloe is just a kid who was having a panic attack. You completely misinterpreted everything."
"I'm out handling some personal business, Daniel," I said, watching the elevators chime open.
"What personal business? Can we meet for lunch? I made reservations at Le Colonial. Your favorite."
"I'm busy."
"Emily, please stop acting like this," his tone shifted, that familiar edge of condescending irritation bleeding through the panic. "You're punishing me for an innocent gesture. You always do this—you shut down and ice me out over things you cook up in your head. It’s emotionally exhausting."
There it was. The gaslighting script he had perfected over four years.
"I'll see you at the Drake on Friday, Daniel," I said quietly.
"Friday? Emily, that's three days away! We have to arrive together! The board members will be there, the Harrisons will be there—"
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"I know," I interrupted, smiling at my reflection in the polished brass elevator doors. "Make sure you wear your tuxedo with the silver cufflinks my father gave you. You'll want to look your absolute best."
Before he could answer, I ended the call and blocked his number until Friday.
