Chapter 2 - The Setup and the Smile
Four hours later, the sterile, fluorescent lights of the hospital emergency room burned my eyes. My right leg was encased in a heavy, fiberglass cast from hip to toe, and my shoulder was pinned in an immobilizer sling. The orthopedic surgeon had used words like shattered tibia and severe ligament tear, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow, freezing void settling deep inside my chest.
Before I had even finished processing the discharge paperwork, the hospital room door swung open.
A tall man in a sharp gray suit walked in, carrying a manila envelope. A process server.
“Sloan Vance-Montgomery?” he asked mechanically.
“Yes,” I rasped, my throat raw.
He dropped a thick stack of legal documents onto my hospital tray table before turning on his heel and walking out.
Divorce papers.
I picked them up with my one usable hand, turning the pages with trembling fingers. Flynn wasn't just filing for a standard dissolution of marriage; he was moving for an immediate, uncontested acquisition of Cedar Point, claiming it had been “jointly improved” during our marriage and demanding full ownership transferred into his sole name immediately. He was stripping me of my home, my family heritage, and my dignity in one swift, predatory stroke.
Without hesitation, I picked up my cell phone from the bedside table and dialed a familiar number.
Phoebe, my grandfather’s fiercely loyal family attorney and senior partner at Vance & Associates, answered on the second ring. Her sharp, analytical voice cut through the quiet of the room.
“Sloan? Are you alright? Your security system at the lake house just sent an alert that—”
“Phoebe,” I interrupted, my voice dropping into a steely, resolute calm. “Draft the transfer agreement.”
Silence hung heavy over the phone line. For a moment, I could hear only the faint hum of the hospital monitors.
“What transfer agreement, Sloan?” Phoebe asked cautiously.
“I’m giving Flynn the lake house.”
The line went dead quiet. Then, a sharp intake of breath.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” Phoebe hissed, disbelief dripping from every syllable.
“No.”
“That property is worth nearly five million dollars on the open market alone, not to mention the historical and sentimental value. It’s your grandfather’s legacy!”
“I know.”
“He’s divorcing you, Sloan! His psychotic mother literally just put you in the hospital! If you sign that house over now, you’re handing him everything on a silver platter!”
“I know, Phoebe,” I repeated softly.
“Sloan, he’ll think he won. He’ll take the house, throw you out, and leave you with nothing.”
A slow, humorless smile touched the corners of my lips as I looked down at my heavy plaster cast.
“Let him,” I whispered.
Phoebe went dead silent on the other end. She knew me. She knew that I was Arthur Vance’s true granddaughter—which meant I didn't cry when I was backed into a corner; I calculated.
“Sloan,” Phoebe said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you playing a game?”
“I’m finishing one.” I lowered my voice further. “Transfer it. Exactly the way my grandfather structured the primary asset clause in his original trust documents back in 2004. Do not alter a single comma.”
Another pause. But this time, it wasn't confusion. It was sudden, dawning realization.
A sharp, breathless intake of air came over the speaker.
Then, a low, wicked chuckle escaped Phoebe’s lips. “Oh,” she murmured.
“Yes,” I replied.
May you like
“It shall be done by midnight. And Sloan? Good luck.”
I hung up the phone, leaned back against my hospital pillows, and stared out the window at the darkening sky. Flynn wanted a war? I was about to give him an unconditional surrender—packaged like a ticking time bomb.
