Chapter 4: Mr. Blake, you've been served.

Mason

Saturday morning was unnaturally quiet.

No tiny feet running down the hallway.

No cartoons blaring from the living room.

No smell of coffee.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the dishes still sitting in the sink.

Catherine hadn't come home.

Fine.

If she wanted to stay away...

I'd simply hire someone to do what she refused to.

"I want every inch of this place scrubbed, sanitized, and restored to exactly how it looked two days ago," I told the agency manager on the phone, not even looking at her as she walked through my front door with a team of four uniform-clad cleaners. "The kitchen, the living room, everything. Do not touch my personal study."

"Of course, Mr. Blake. We'll have a full deep-clean finished within three hours," she assured me.

I didn't answer. I just tossed my keys onto the freshly wiped marble counter and walked straight to my bedroom, slamming the door. Let professionals handle it. I wasn't going to spend another second breaking my shins over misplaced plastic toys or staring at piles of unwashed laundry. If Catherine wanted to abandon her post, I could easily pay to replace her services.

But by the next afternoon, the reality of her absence caught up to me.

I sat at my executive desk, staring blankly at a legal brief while my stomach twisted into tight, painful knots. Miller had quietly stepped into the office twenty minutes prior, leaving a plastic container of takeout from a premium dynamic-dining spot downtown on the edge of my desk.

I popped the lid and took a heavy bite of the braised beef and garlic noodles. The moment the food hit my tongue, I gagged. It was slick, heavy, and drenched in a thick layer of processed oil that coated the roof of my mouth. I tried to swallow, but my throat locked up, causing me to violently cough.

"Mr. Blake?" Miller asked, rushing forward with a glass of water. "Are you alright?"

I shoved the container away, coughing into a napkin as the greasy smell made my stomach turn entirely. "Take this away. It’s inedible."

"I—I apologize, sir. I ordered from the cafeteria downstairs."

"It tastes like grease and shit," I snapped, taking a sharp sip of the water to rinse the slick residue from my mouth. "Just get it out of my sight."

As Miller scrambled to clear the desk, I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. My body was entirely out of sync. I was running on four hours of sleep, my throat burned, and the lack of a proper meal was making me dizzy.

'Where the hell was she?'

She wasn't adventurous enough to disappear.

Catherine always ran toward familiarity.

If she wasn't at work...

She'd be with her mother.

I reached for my phone to call a driver to take me there, but my hand froze above the screen.

I didn't know the address.

Six years of marriage, and I had absolutely no idea where my mother-in-law lived. I knew she lived somewhere across the city, in a neighborhood I routinely avoided, but the exact street or building number escaped me completely. To me, that side of Catherine’s life was "poverty" I actively tried to keep away from my children.

"Miller," I called out before my assistant could leave the room.

"Yes, Mr. Blake?"

"Pull up Catherine’s employee file from the digital archive. Print out her emergency contact and primary address details and bring them to me immediately."

"Right away, sir."

Five minutes later, Miller returned, placing a single sheet of paper on my desk. I snatched it up, my eyes scanning the lines under 'Residential Address'.

My jaw clenched.

'1428 Riverview Heights Drive.' My own house. She had updated her records the moment we signed our marriage certificate.

"Is there an issue, Mr. Blake?" Miller asked cautiously, noticing the flare of anger in my expression.

"The secondary contact," I muttered, flipping the page. "Her mother. What’s the address listed for the next of kin?"

Miller leaned in slightly, squinting at the digital printout. "It looks like that field was left blank, sir. Only a landline phone number is listed, but... well, that exchange prefix was decommissioned two years ago when the telecom lines were updated."

I slammed the paper down, thoroughly pissed off.

"Find it," I commanded, looking directly into Miller’s eyes. "I don't care if you have to call corporate compliance, look into old tax filings from her hiring package six years ago, or trace her banking routing numbers for any monthly transfers she makes. Find her mother's current address by the end of the day."

"I'll... I'll get the legal and payroll team on it immediately, sir."

Once the door clicked shut, I pulled out my personal phone. My irritation was boiling over. This little game had crossed the line from a domestic dispute into an absolute embarrassment. I opened her chat history—still completely silent, my previous missed calls sitting there like unanswered accusations.

I tapped out a sequence of messages, my thumbs hitting the screen with aggressive force.

Mason: You're not getting a cent.

Mason: Stop embarrassing yourself and come back home.

I stared at the screen, waiting for the typing bubbles to appear. Five minutes passed. Ten. Nothing. She didn't even read them. The messages sat there with single grey checkmarks, completely ignored.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, tossing the phone face down onto the mahogany wood.

By 5:30 p.m., Miller hadn't found the address yet, but something else had found me.

A knock sounded on my office door.

"Come in."

Miller stepped inside, an unfamiliar expression on his face.

"Mr. Blake... there's someone from Harrison & Cole downstairs."

I furrowed my brows.

Harrison & Cole?

One of the city's top family law firms.

"Tell them to leave whatever it is with reception."

Miller hesitated.

"I already did, sir. He refused."

My pen stopped moving.

"...Fine."

I pushed back my chair and strode toward the elevator.

The moment the doors opened into the lobby, I spotted him.

A man in a charcoal suit stood calmly beside the reception desk, a large legal envelope tucked beneath one arm.

Receptionists, security personnel, and a handful of employees pretended not to stare as I approached.

The man glanced at the document in his hand before looking up.

"Mason Blake?"

"Yes."

He extended the envelope.

"You've been served."

No one said a word.

But I could feel every pair of eyes on me.

I took the envelope without another word, turned on my heel, and walked straight back to the executive elevator.

Only after the doors slid shut behind me did I look down at the thick courier envelope in my hands.

The return address wasn't from a client or one of our legal partners.

An uncomfortable feeling settled low in my stomach.

By the time I reached my office, Miller had quietly dismissed everyone waiting outside.

I shut the door behind me.

The envelope landed on my desk with a heavy thud.

I tore it open.

Sitting on top was a formal court summons.

My eyes narrowed.

A civil suit.

Financial restitution.

Breach of implied domestic contract.

Beneath it...

was Catherine's ledger.

I opened it, flipping through the first page.

A scowl immediately settled on my face.

Hospital receipts.

Promotion rejection letter.

Photographs.

She kept all of this?

Every single penny she had ever spent while trying to prove to me that she wasn't a gold digger was now compiled into an invoice.

A cold, knotting sensation formed in the pit of my stomach.

"Why is she making a big deal out of nothing?" I muttered to myself, my voice sounding hollow in the large office.

This was completely ridiculous. A marriage wasn't an employment contract. You couldn't just invoice your spouse for having children or cleaning the kitchen. But as my eyes caught the total figure stamped at the bottom—$5,000,000—a sharp wave of panic cut through my irritation.

If this hit the courts, it wouldn't just be a private dispute. The media would have a field day. “Billionaire CEO of L&T Group Sued by Wife for Six Years of Unpaid Housekeeping.” The board of directors would panic. The stock prices would take a hit over a domestic PR nightmare. It would look incredibly unseemly, regardless of how absurd her claims actually were.

She knew exactly where to strike to make me uncomfortable. She was using my own corporate vulnerability against me.

I couldn't let this escalate.

Five million dollars was insignificant.

A public scandal wasn't.

I immediately opened my account, and pulled Catherine's personal checking account. I typed in the full amount. Five million dollars.

I clicked 'Authorize'.

The screen flashed green: Transfer Successful.

I immediately snatched up my phone, opening our chat thread, and sent a final message.

Mason: Fine.

Mason: Here's your money.

Mason: Now stop playing these stupid games.