Chapter 2 - The Audit of a Five-Year Lie
By 7:00 A.M. the next morning, I had accomplished more than Gregory could have anticipated in a lifetime.
I met with my attorney, Victoria Hayes, in her high-rise office overlooking the river. Victoria had known me since college; she had reviewed my first commercial contracts when I built my design firm from scratch at twenty-four.
She spent forty-five minutes scrolling through the exported files from Gregory’s phone.
Her pen tapped rhythmically against her legal pad.
“He didn’t just cheat on you, Naomi,” Victoria said, turning her screen toward me. “He embezzled from your joint accounts to finance her apartment lease, and he used your personal design assets for his corporate pitches.”
I looked at the documents.
Gregory’s prestigious marketing agency, Apex Media, had won a multimillion-dollar account with a national retail chain three months earlier. The campaign concepts, the visual identity, the brand architecture—it was all work I had drafted in my private home studio, files he had claimed he was “reviewing for feedback.”
He had presented my intellectual property as his own team’s work to secure a massive partnership promotion.
“Can we prove authorship?” I asked.
Victoria gave a cold, shark-like smile.
“Every single file on your personal server has original timestamps, raw vector layers, and copyright registrations dating back eighteen months. He stole from a registered business entity.”
“What about our house?”
“The property was purchased using your pre-marital inheritance as the seventy percent down payment,” Victoria reminded me. “He signed a clear transmutation waiver when you bought it. He has no legal right to retain the deed.”
“Then let’s start with the locks,” I said.
By noon, a locksmith had completely re-keyed the front gates, garage, and main doors of our four-bedroom home in Oakridge.
Two private security guards stood stationed at the entrance of the driveway.
On the front porch sat three large, neatly taped cardboard boxes containing Gregory’s designer suits, shoes, golf clubs, and cologne.
At 1:15 P.M., Gregory’s silver sedan pulled into the driveway.
He got out of the car looking exasperated, holding a garment bag and his laptop briefcase. When he saw the security guards and the boxes stacked on the porch, his face darkened with fury.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded, storming toward the porch.
One of the guards stepped forward, holding up a palm.
“Sir, you are trespassing on private property. Please step back.”
“This is my house! I live here!”
I opened the heavy oak front door, wearing a simple pair of jeans and a black turtleneck, holding a copy of our pre-marital property schedule and a temporary restraining order.
“Actually, Gregory, you don’t,” I said evenly.
He glared at me, his face flushing crimson.
“Are you insane? You can’t lock me out of my own home because of an argument at a restaurant!”
“It wasn’t an argument. It was a confession,” I replied. “And your boxes are packed. If you touch the front handle, the guards have explicit instructions to call the police for trespassing and violation of a temporary civil exclusion order.”
Gregory let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.
“You’re bluffing. You think you can survive on your own? You haven’t run your business in four years! You don’t have an income! You’re going to crawl back to me within a week when the mortgage comes due!”
“The mortgage that is already paid off from my trust account?” I tilted my head. “Check your corporate email, Gregory. I think your managing director has a few questions about your latest campaign proposal.”
His smirk vanished instantly.
His phone began ringing from his pocket.
The screen flashed the name of Apex Media’s Chief Executive Officer.
May you like
Gregory looked from his phone to my face.
For the first time in five years, the arrogance completely drained from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, sickening panic.
