Chapter 1 - The Yacht and the Ventilator
"What exactly do you think you're going to do, Victoria?" Constance sneered, adjusting the collar of her Chanel coat. She stood in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway of the pediatric ICU, projecting an aura of immense, untouchable wealth. "Julian owns the trusts, the penthouses, the firm, and you own a diaper bag. You have absolutely no leverage. Keep quiet, accept his apologies when he returns, and let the adults manage the narrative."
I looked through the glass window into room 4B, where my tiny, fragile son, Leo, was dwarfed by the massive ventilator keeping him alive. His small chest rose and fell with a terrifying, mechanical rhythm. For three days, I had been bleeding, crying, and praying for his survival, completely alone and entirely terrified. But as I looked at the digital timestamp on the Instagram photo of Julian kissing Sloane on a yacht in St. Barts, the desperate, weeping wife I had been simply died.
In her place, the ruthless, meticulous federal prosecutor I used to be was resurrected.
"You're right, Constance," I said, my voice dropping into a low, icy register that completely lacked emotion. "I should let the adults manage the narrative. Please excuse me. I have phone calls to make."
Constance smirked, assuming she had successfully cowed me into submission. She turned and strutted down the hospital corridor, satisfied that her son's scandalous affair and blatant abandonment were safely hidden under the rug of high society.
She had no idea that I was about to set the entire rug on fire.
I didn't call Julian. I didn't leave a hysterical voicemail begging him to come back. Instead, I walked down to the hospital cafeteria, bought a stale black coffee, and opened my laptop. I dialed the direct cell phone number of Marcus Sterling, the most feared, aggressive divorce attorney in New York City, and a former colleague from my days at the US Attorney's Office.
"Victoria," Marcus answered, his voice sharp and alert. "It's been a while. How is the baby?"
"He's on a ventilator, Marcus," I said cleanly. "And Julian is in St. Barts with the VP of Wealth Management, spending company funds on a chartered yacht while claiming he's in London closing the Harrington merger."
There was a brief pause on the line. I heard the distinct sound of Marcus pulling a legal pad across his desk. "Wire fraud. Embezzlement. Extortion of corporate assets. And he abandoned a critically ill dependent while restricting access to joint marital funds?"
"He froze the credit cards before he left so I couldn't buy a plane ticket or hire a private car to take my dying son to the hospital," I confirmed, typing furiously as I spoke. "I want an ex-parte emergency custody order filed immediately. I want the penthouse locks changed. And I want you to subpoena the flight manifests for the private jet he used."
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"Consider it done," Marcus said, the thrill of the hunt clear in his voice. "But Victoria, if we strike now, we have to strike to kill. If he realizes we're building a case, his corporate lawyers will bury us in injunctions."
"He thinks I'm a hysterical, helpless housewife sitting by a crib," I replied, a dark, terrible smile touching my lips for the first time in days. "Let him think that until he walks through the front door."
