Vivian Cole stands by the dining table with her laptop open, reading glasses low on her nose, untouched coffee beside her. She is elegant without softness, a woman who does not waste cruelty because precision works better.
When she sees me, her expression shifts slightly.
“You did it.”
“Yes.”
“Did he follow?”
“No.”
“Good,” Vivian says. “Then we begin before he realizes the floor is gone.”
I sit across from her.
Ethan places folders on the table, then a hard drive sealed in a plastic evidence bag. I watch the stack grow like bricks taken from the prison Nathan built around my life.
Vivian opens the first file.
“Your divorce petition is ready. The emergency protection request over marital assets is ready. The injunction for the Oakridge property is ready. The complaint for forged authorization is ready. What happens next depends on how stupid Nathan chooses to be.”
My phone lights up again.
Answer me now.
I turn it toward Vivian.
She smiles faintly.
“Stupid, then.”
By 1:00 a.m., Nathan has called twenty-three times.
By 1:17, he changes tactics.
Caroline, I know tonight looked bad. Serena was drunk. I was trying to protect the firm. Don’t do this. Come back and we’ll talk.