Attorney's office

CHAPTER FIVE — Attorney's Office

POV: Elena Voss

Renata Cole looked nothing like the legal sharks people imagined when they thought of high-stakes divorce attorneys. She was elegant, somewhere in her late fifties, with silver streaks running beautifully through her dark hair and the kind of quiet, perceptive eyes that noticed everything. Her office overlooked downtown Riverside—all floor-to-ceiling glass, mahogany bookshelves, and framed Ivy League degrees. There was nothing overtly intimidating about the space.

At least, not until she finished reviewing the contents of my blue folder.

She sat back in her leather chair, removed her reading glasses, and looked at me with an expression hovering somewhere between profound admiration and clinical concern. "You compiled all of this in less than a week?"

I folded my hands neatly in my lap, keeping my posture rigid. "Five days."

Renata blinked, processing the timeline. "Five days."

I nodded once. She glanced back down at the desk, scanning the photographs, the bank statements, the property records, the certified DNA report, and the private school registration forms. Everything was organized chronologically, separated by typed dividers, and meticulously color-coded.

"You organized these chronologically," she murmured.

"It made logical sense."

"And the color-coding?"

"I was a little angry."

Her mouth twitched with a faint, involuntary smile. "Dr. Voss, most clients come into my office with mascara running down their faces and messy screenshots from their husband's iPad. You walked in with legally binding exhibits."

I lowered my eyes to my wedding ring, the diamond catching the afternoon light. "I needed facts."

"You have facts." She picked up the wire transfer document, her expression darkening. "And unfortunately, you also have some very expensive enemies."

I looked up, my chest tightening. "The Lang family?"

Renata nodded heavily. "Enormously wealthy. Deeply entrenched in local politics. They fund political campaigns, hospital wings, and major charities. If this turn ugly—and trust me, these things always do—they will use every resource at their disposal to protect their daughter."

"Daughter," I repeated quietly. Sophia. Twenty-eight years old, unmarried, and currently carrying my husband's child. The word tasted like ash in my mouth, still refusing to feel real even as I forced myself to say it aloud.

Renata closed the folder with a definitive snap. "Listen to me carefully, Elena. You have one massive advantage that most betrayed spouses never get."

"What's that?"

"Time." She leaned forward across the desk, noting my frown. "Marcus doesn't actually know that you know everything."

"He saw me looking at the laptop screen the other night."

"He suspects you're snooping. That is not the same thing as knowing you have a bulletproof paper trail." Her expression sharpened, her corporate demeanour completely taking over. "If he's smart, he’ll start covering his tracks and moving assets this week. Which means you need to move faster than he does."

"I want a divorce, Renata. Immediately."

"You'll get one."

"And I want Liam fully protected. Financially and legally."

"And that is exactly why you need absolute patience." She slid a fresh legal pad toward herself, her pen scratching against the paper as she spoke. "Your son is sixteen. Family court judges care about stability. If Marcus decides to fight dirty, his legal team will paint you as unstable, vindictive, and obsessed. They’ll claim the marriage simply fell apart under the stress of your career. Sophia's family money can buy elite experts, private investigators, and public relations firms to control the narrative."

"He stole our son's college tuition," I said, my voice cracking for the first time.

"And we will prove that."

"He is having another child."

"And we will prove that, too."

"He—"

"We will prove everything, Elena." Her voice softened, the sharp attorney fading into something maternal. "But we can not do it today."

Silence settled heavily between us. Below the high-rise window, the city moved normally. Cars crawled through traffic, pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks, and people carried their afternoon coffee, completely oblivious to the fact that the wreckage of my twenty-year marriage sat inside a single folder on Renata's desk.

"I don't know how to do this," I admitted quietly, looking at my trembling hands.

"Yes, you do." She smiled gently, leaning back. "You're a physician. When a trauma patient comes into your emergency room bleeding out, do you rush them into the operating room and start cutting immediately?"

"No."

"What do you do first?"

"You assess the damage."

"And then?"

"You stabilize the vitals."

"You gather the diagnostic data," Renata finished for me, and I nodded slowly. "And only when you have the full picture do you make the incision." She folded her hands over the blue folder. "Build the case before you light the match."

The words settled deep into my bones. They didn't bring comfort, but they brought order. I wasn't just a scorned wife anymore. I was a mother protecting her child, and everything else came second to that—even my anger. Especially my anger.

By the time I left Renata's office, the sun had begun to sink beneath the skyline. She had handed me a strictly confidential list of documents to collect, recommendations for forensic accountants, and one piece of non-negotiable advice: Do not confront him. Do not show your hand. Act normal. Build quietly. I promised her I would.

On the drive home, I stopped outside Liam's favourite burger joint and bought a massive takeout bag. He met me halfway through the front door, lanky, perpetually hungry, and impossible not to love.

"Mom, you're an actual hero," he said, smelling the fries.

"I know."

He threw a quick arm around my shoulder, hugging me absentmindedly before stealing a handful of fries before I could even set the bag on the island. He talked through his entire meal, bouncing from school drama to a girl who had dumped his best friend to a history teacher everyone universally hated. I sat across from him, listening intently, laughing in all the right places, and just watching him. Sixteen years of life. His first steps, his childhood asthma attacks, the chaotic soccer games, the broken bones, the midnight nightmares—all of it had folded into the beautiful boy sitting across from me with ketchup on his chin.

Nothing was worth losing him. Absolutely nothing.

By eight o'clock, Liam disappeared upstairs to tackle his calculus homework. I walked out to my car under the pretence of grabbing my briefcase, sitting in the dark driveway for ten minutes just to breathe. Renata's mantra kept echoing in the silence: Build the case before you light the match. I was going to do this systematically. Slowly. Carefully.

I unlocked the front door, stepped into the dark foyer, and froze.

Marcus was sitting at the kitchen table. The television wasn't on, and there was no food in front of him. He was just waiting. The overhead pendant lights cast harsh, skeletal shadows across the sharp planes of his face. His laptop sat open directly in front of him.

No. Not his laptop.

Mine.

The screen was glowing brightly in the dim room, displaying our primary banking portal. The forty-thousand-dollar transfer. The corporate credit card routing numbers. The hidden statements.

Marcus slowly looked up from the glass screen. His expression was completely unreadable—no easy charm, no explosive anger, just a blank, terrifying void. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, ice-calm, and entirely steady.

"We need to talk about what you've been looking at."