Chapter 3 - The Atlanta Stakeout and the Second Mistake
By Tuesday afternoon, Marcus Vance—no relation to Everett, thankfully, but easily the most ruthless family law litigator in the state—had already secured a temporary restraining order freezing all marital assets, real estate transfers, and corporate stock options. Everett’s firm, Sterling & Holt Consulting, had been formally notified of the pending litigation, effectively halting any overseas relocation packages or emergency loans they might have tried to quietly process behind my back.
But Everett wasn't in London, and he wasn't in jail. He was holed up in a boutique hotel in Midtown Atlanta, desperately trying to salvage whatever cash he had left while his mistress screamed at him in the background of their poorly insulated hotel room.
I knew this because my private investigator, a former federal agent named Miller whom I had hired the night before at midnight, had been parked across the street from the Hotel Clermont for twelve hours straight.
“He’s sweating bullets, Mrs. Norris,” Miller’s voice crackled through my car’s Bluetooth speakers as I sat parked three spaces down from his unmarked sedan on a rainy Atlanta side street. “The girl—Chloe—packed her bags about an hour ago and took an Uber to the airport. She realized the money train derailed the second those cards went cold. Everett is currently sitting in the hotel lobby looking like a ghost who forgot how to haunt.”
“Is he alone?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel.
“Completely solo. Just a very expensive suit, zero cash, and a burner phone he bought at a gas station after I locked him out of his primary accounts.” Miller chuckled softly. “You want me to bring him out to you?”
“No,” I said, a cold thrill running down my spine. “Let him squirm a little longer. I’m going inside.”
Ten minutes later, I pushed open the glass doors of the boutique hotel lobby. The air smelled of expensive sandalwood, wet pavement, and quiet desperation. I was dressed in a sharp, tailored navy pantsuit, my hair pulled back into a sleek chignon, my heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete floor with the rhythmic precision of a ticking clock.
Everett was slumped in a velvet armchair near the back of the lounge, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his tie discarded on the cushion beside him, looking ten years older than the man who had kissed me goodbye at the airport terminal just days ago.
When my shadow fell across his table, he looked up.
For a split second, I saw confusion flicker across his face. Then recognition hit him like a physical blow. He scrambled out of the chair so fast he knocked his water glass over, sending ice cubes clattering across the floor.
“Stella?” he choked out, his voice hoarse and ragged. “What... what are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“You left a very easy digital trail, Everett,” I said smoothly, sliding into the armchair he had just vacated and crossing my legs. “Though, to be fair, hiding out in the city where your corporate expense account has a long paper trail isn't exactly criminal mastermind behavior.”
He sank back down onto the arm of the chair, his hands trembling as he tried to run them through his thinning hair. “Stella, listen to me. Please. It’s not what you think. Chloe... she meant nothing to me. It was a stupid mistake, a lapse in judgment, work stress—you know how brutal the London transition has been on my mental health—”
“What London transition?” I interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Your flight never existed, Everett. The airline confirmed you canceled your ticket three weeks ago. You were never going to London. You were planning to drop me, dump your parents in my house as unpaid live-in servants, and disappear to some beachfront condo in Florida with your twenty-four-year-old assistant using my inheritance.”
Everett’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him a ghastly, pasty grey. “How... how did you—”
“I’m an accountant, Everett. I read the fine print. And more importantly, I checked your browser history before you wiped your laptop.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, locking my eyes onto his terrified, pathetic gaze. “You thought I was naive. You thought because I spent six years making you feel like a king that I was too weak to ever pull the rug out from under you.”
“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking as actual tears welled up in his eyes. “Please, Stella, don't do this. If the firm finds out about the asset freeze, I’ll lose my partnership. If you file for a fault divorce, my career is over. We can work this out. We can go to counseling. We can sell the house, split the money—”
“There is no we anymore,” I said, standing up and towering over him. “The house belongs to my family trust. Your corporate shares are frozen. Your parents are currently packing their bags because they realized their meal ticket just filed for bankruptcy. And as for your career?” I offered a razor-sharp smile. “Marcus is forwarding your company’s internal compliance department a full forensic audit of the last three years of your expense reports—including the dinners, the hotel stays, and yes, that fifteen-thousand-dollar diamond bracelet.”
He reached out, grabbing frantically at the sleeve of my blazer. “Stella, wait! You can't ruin my life over this!”
May you like
I gently but firmly peeled his fingers off my jacket, smoothing down the fabric with deliberate care.
“I’m not ruining your life, Everett,” I whispered, turning toward the exit. “I’m just returning you to the exact financial and social standing I found you in six years ago. Enjoy the lobby. I hear the Wi-Fi here is free for the first two hours.”
