Chapter 3 - THE DESPERATE GAMBITTwo weeks had passed since the night of the incident.
Sabina had made a full recovery and was thriving. Away from the suffocating, cold atmosphere of the Ashford mansion, my daughter’s personality blossomed. She laughed loudly in our spacious, sunlit penthouse, painted giant colorful watercolors on real canvases, and ate breakfast in her pajamas without Beatrix whispering about "table manners suitable for nobility."
I had completely restructured my routine. I spent my mornings driving Sabina to her private preschool and my afternoons running Aegis Holdings from my plush downtown corner office.
Meanwhile, Thatcher and Beatrix were drowning.
Deprived of my financial backing, Thatcher was forced to move into a cramped, two-bedroom rented apartment on the outer edge of the city. His luxury vehicles—which were leased under Aegis Holdings—had been repossessed. His social standing was in tatters; no investment firm would take his calls, knowing that his supposed wealth was a myth and his business acumen nonexistent.
Beatrix was forced to sell off her vintage jewelry collection just to cover their immediate living expenses and pay for Thatcher’s aggressive divorce attorney, a ruthless legal bulldog named Donald Vance (no relation to Marcus) who specialized in high-conflict asset splittings.
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Marcus and I sat in a sleek conference room on the 40th floor of Vance & Partners, preparing for our first court-ordered mediation session with Thatcher and his legal team.
The heavy mahogany door opened, and Thatcher walked in, followed by his lawyer, Donald Vance. Behind them, unexpectedly, was Beatrix, dressed in a muted gray dress that looked noticeably worn at the cuffs.
Thatcher looked exhausted. Dark circles hung under his hollow eyes, and his once-tailored suit looked slightly loose on his frame. But when he looked at me sitting at the head of the table in my tailored ivory blazer, his exhaustion turned into bitter resentment.
"Vivian," Thatcher said, taking a seat across from me. "You’ve had your fun. You’ve dragged my name through the mud, ruined my business, and humiliated my mother. Are you finally ready to be reasonable?"
I didn't answer him. I simply opened my leather portfolio and adjusted my pen.
Donald Vance, Thatcher’s attorney, leaned forward, slamming a stack of papers onto the table. "Mrs. Ashford—"
"Ms. Vance," Marcus corrected smoothly. "My client has legally restored her maiden name."
Donald sneered. "Ms. Vance, then. We are here to negotiate a fair settlement. My client spent five years married to you. During that time, he surrendered his own career development to support your business expansion and build your joint social capital. We are demanding fifty percent of all Aegis Holdings appreciation value accrued during the marriage, thirty thousand dollars a month in spousal maintenance, full joint custody of Sabina, and the immediate return of the Oakridge Estate."
I couldn't help it. A soft, genuine laugh escaped my lips.
Beatrix glared across the table, her hand trembling against her handbag. "You think this is funny, you ungrateful girl?! You ruined my family’s reputation! You threw us into the street over a common cold!"
"She had a 104-degree fever, Beatrix," I said softly, looking at her with absolute composure. "And if I had listened to you, my child could have suffered permanent brain damage or worse. You don't get to speak about family to me."
"Let’s address your demands, Donald," Marcus interjected, pulling out a thick electronic tablet. "First, spousal maintenance: Thatcher’s personal bank records show that over the last thirty-six months, he transferred over eight hundred thousand dollars from Aegis corporate expense accounts into personal offshore trading accounts without board authorization. That constitutes corporate embezzlement."
Thatcher froze, his eyes darting nervously toward his lawyer. "Those were business development expenses!"
"Purchasing a ninety-foot yacht charter in Saint-Tropez for your college fraternity brothers is not a business development expense, Thatcher," Marcus said dryly. "We have the receipts, the bank traces, and the affidavits from the crew."
Donald Vance cleared his throat, leaning over to whisper frantically into Thatcher’s ear. Thatcher angrily pulled away.
"Second," Marcus continued, "regarding child custody: We have submitted the medical reports from Saint Jude’s Urgent Care, along with sworn statements from the home staff who witnessed Thatcher and Beatrix attempting to block Ms. Vance from leaving the premises while her child was in medical crisis. We are filing for sole legal and physical custody, with Thatcher’s visitation rights contingent upon mandatory parenting classes and psychological evaluation."
"Psychological evaluation?!" Beatrix shrieked, standing up. "He is an Ashford! His bloodline has lived in this city for four generations! How dare you suggest he is unfit to see his own daughter?!"
"Bloodline doesn't pay pediatric medical bills, Beatrix," I said calmly, meeting her furious gaze. "And it certainly doesn't excuse neglect."
Thatcher slammed his hands onto the table, leaning across toward me, his face twisting into a mask of pure rage. "You think you’ve won, Vivian?! You think you can just erase me?! I made you! I gave you access to the elite circles of this city! Without my name, you’re just another ruthless tech entrepreneur with no class!"
"Your name," I said, leaning in close so he could hear every low, steady syllable, "was worth nothing until I put my money behind it. You were drowning in debt when I met you, Thatcher. I paid off your family’s tax liens. I bought back your mother’s mortgaged jewelry. I built the illusion of your success. You didn't make me. I funded you."
Thatcher stared at me, his chest heaving, realization finally dawning on him that he had zero leverage left.
"We will take this to trial!" Donald Vance blustered, trying to save face. "We will litigate this in open court! The press will have a field day with Aegis Holdings’ private finances!"
"Please do," Marcus smiled pleasantly. "Because in open court, all of Thatcher’s bank statements, his secret debts, and his mother’s fraudulent tax filings will become public record. Is that a risk you want your client to take, Donald?"
May you like
Donald looked at Thatcher, then at Beatrix, and slowly closed his briefcase. "My client... needs a moment to consult in private."
As they retreated to the hallway, I sat back in my chair, taking a deep breath. The weight that had been pressing down on my chest for five long years was finally, completely lifted.
