He blinked, thrown off by my calm. “Good. And don’t try anything. My lawyer already handled everything. You’ll get what you deserve.”
I said nothing more. Slept in the guest room. And instead of packing, I made three calls:
My attorney, Iris Han. My CFO, because my contract contained sensitive clauses. My bank, to lock down all financial access.
By morning, Iris had already dug into public records.
Yes, Damon’s name was on the deed.
But he didn’t understand how that deed had actually been funded.
At 8:12 a.m., he banged on my door. “I said tomorrow! Don’t push me!”
I opened it halfway. “I heard you,” I said. “You’ll hear from me soon.”
He scoffed. “With what power? You don’t have any.”
I nearly laughed.
Because he had no idea.
Three days later, in a hotel suite, I sat signing documents with Iris when my phone lit up with Damon’s name.
His voice wasn’t arrogant anymore. It was shaking.
“Listen—we need to talk. Now.”
I looked at the divorce papers and replied calmly, “No.”
“They froze the accounts,” he whispered. “And there are people at the house.”
I kept my voice neutral. “Which accounts?”
“All of them!” he snapped. “My checking, my business line, even our joint—”
“Our joint one?” I repeated.