Chapter 10 - The Price of Betrayal
Patricia’s fingers dug into the edge of the table. "Forty percent. Deposited into an overseas account of my choosing, tax-free, with a signed guarantee that your legal team won't pursue me for my role in laundering his corporate kickbacks."
I stared at her for a long, agonizing moment, letting the silence stretch until her breath began to hitch. The sheer audacity of her demand was almost laughable. The woman who had proudly stood beside my ex-husband on the worst day of my life, mocking my defeat, was now sitting across from me, begging for safe passage out of the very wreckage she had helped create.
"Forty percent of three point five million dollars is one million four hundred thousand," I said softly, tracing the rim of my glass with a manicured nail. "Let's review the current legal landscape, Patricia. As a co-conspirator in Brandon's corporate fraud—a fact my lawyers have quietly documented and kept on ice—you aren't entitled to a single cent. In fact, if I hand these files to the district attorney tomorrow morning, you won't be worrying about an overseas account. You’ll be worrying about whether federal penitentiaries provide adequate skincare routines."
Patricia’s face drained of what little color remained, her lips parting in a silent gasp. "You... you already knew about the shell corporation."
"Of course I did," I said, a faint, cold smile gracing my lips. "Did you really think a man like Brandon could execute a complex offshore maneuver without leaving a digital paper trail a mile wide? My accountants flagged that discrepancy within forty-eight hours of the divorce filing. We left it dormant as a tripwire. The moment he tried to access it, his parole—or rather, his bankruptcy trustee—would have flagged it anyway."
"Then why didn't you seize it?" she whispered, pure terror creeping into her voice.
"Because," I leaned across the table, locking my eyes onto hers, "dirty money attracts dirty problems. I didn't want to dirty my hands cleaning up Brandon's final, desperate stash. But you... you brought it right to me on a silver platter, thinking you were the master strategist."
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Before Patricia could scramble backward out of the booth, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Caleb, waiting in the lobby: *“Everything’s secured downstairs. Legal team has the asset forfeiture documents ready for signature. Want me to send up the process server?”*
I tapped out a quick reply: *“Send up the server and two federal marshals as observers. Let’s wrap this up.”*
