I didn’t drive home. I drove straight to the central vault of my private equity firm downtown and met with my lead corporate attorney, Harrison Blackwood.
When Harrison reviewed the birth certificate registration coordinates and the company bank lines, his expression turned fiercely cold. “Julian, your husband has been routing seventy percent of his startup’s auxiliary funds directly into a private savings account registered under Sierra’s maiden name. And your mother’s luxury apartment lease is fully co-signed by your primary business account.”
“Liquidate it all, Harrison,” I said, my voice dropping into a flat, icy register that made him instantly open the master digital ledger. “Every single line.”
By 4:30 PM, the trap they had spent nine months building while laughing behind my back finally snapped shut on their own fingers.
I walked back into Sierra’s private hospital suite. The room was filled with expensive bouquets, premium chocolate baskets, and my mother was busy pouring sparkling cider into glass flutes. Kevin was cradling the newborn, a smug, paternal triumph plastered across his face, while Sierra smiled warmly from the bed.
