“I’m downstairs. Tell me it’s finished.”
I turned. A tall brunette in a structured black coat stood near the entrance, watching. She approached us directly.
“Did you file it?” she asked him sharply.
“I’m his wife,” I said before he could answer.
She looked annoyed, not embarrassed.
“He’s restructuring assets,” she replied coolly.
“He redirected my bank notifications to your email,” I answered.
Her composure cracked instantly.
“You used my email?” she demanded of him.
He didn’t respond.
Security shifted closer as the tension rose. I saw her name flash on her phone screen: Taylor Morgan.
“You promised me Friday,” she said coldly, then walked out, furious.
Ethan turned to me, anger tightly contained. “You’re making this a spectacle. Let’s go home.”
“We’ll communicate through attorneys,” I replied.
That afternoon, I met with family law attorney Rachel Monroe. She reviewed everything.
“We’ll request emergency temporary orders,” she said. “Exclusive occupancy and restrictions on financial transfers.”
By evening, Ethan was sending messages accusing me of humiliating him, claiming I had misinterpreted everything.