Chapter 3 - The Quiet Law Office and the Hidden Stake
Hours later, I sat across a polished mahogany conference table from Nathan Brooks, an old law-school friend who had risen through the ranks to become one of the most respected family-law attorneys in the state. Nathan looked up from a stack of financial portfolios, adjusting his glasses as he studied my calm demeanor.
“Alright, Claire,” Nathan said softly, his voice filled with professional caution. “Tell me what you want out of this. Given what you pulled off on the company Slack this morning, I assume you want blood.”
I shook my head slowly. “Nothing that belongs to Aaron, Nathan. I don't want his personal salary extensions, I don't want his corporate bonuses, and I certainly don't want his fabricated debts. I want what was mine before the marriage, and my fair share of anything legally marital. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Nathan’s pen hovered over his legal pad. He nodded approvingly, signaling for me to hand over the documentation. For the next hour, Nathan started reviewing the comprehensive files I had brought along: property deeds, joint account ledgers, corporate stock transfers, and hidden asset statements. Everything was meticulously organized, color-coded, and cross-referenced with bank routing numbers.
As a former corporate auditor, I knew how to follow a paper trail better than any divorce lawyer. But there was one massive, foundational truth that Aaron Prescott had never bothered to understand about me. Not his overbearing mother, not his high-priced corporate attorneys, and certainly not his calculating mistress, Jasmine. They all looked at me and saw a decorative, quiet corporate wife.
I reached down into my leather tote bag and placed a second, heavier set of legal papers on top of the table, sliding them across the mahogany toward Nathan.
“My grandfather left me something special right before I married Aaron,” I said quietly.
Nathan looked up, blinking in surprise. He picked up the heavy parchment folder and opened it. “A minority stake in a private investment holding company?” he asked, skimming the header.
Nathan’s pen stopped moving entirely. He stared down at the document, his eyes widening.
“How large of a stake?” Nathan asked, his voice suddenly dropping an octave.
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table, and named the exact percentage and the current market valuation of the private investment firm.
Nathan sat straight back in his executive chair, staring at me as if I had just revealed I was an intergalactic spy. Then he looked down at the paperwork again, double-checking the corporate registry seals. Then he looked back up at me, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across his face.
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The look in his eyes told the whole story: Aaron Prescott had spent three full years making one unimaginably catastrophic mistake. He had spent his entire marriage assuming the quiet, submissive wife standing in his shadow possessed nothing of her own.
He was about to learn how devastatingly wrong he really was.
