As my husband toasted his mistress in our mansion on Christmas Eve, police officers stepped inside to evict everyone on the property—including him.

Two days later, on Thursday afternoon, I was at our flagship restaurant location in downtown Chicago, finalizing the transitional payroll with our general managers.

The staff had been nervous after news of the Christmas Eve mansion lockdown leaked into local business journals, but I personally met with every head chef, dishwasher, and floor manager to reassure them that their paychecks were secure and that corporate operations were continuing under my sole direction.

I was sitting in the private back office reviewing inventory invoices when the door swung open without a knock.

Brooke Lawson walked in.

She wasn't wearing her emerald velvet gown. She wore a beige trench coat, oversized sunglasses, and high-heeled boots, but her face was pale and dark circles were visible under her eyes.

She slammed a leather folder onto my desk.

"We need to talk, Maya," Brooke said, trying to project a cold, corporate authority she clearly didn't possess.

I leaned back in my leather chair, folding my hands over my desk. "You're in my office, Brooke. And considering you were officially terminated from your position as administrative assistant two days ago via certified mail, you are currently trespassing."

Brooke took off her sunglasses, her eyes flashing with anger. "Nathan loves me, Maya. He hasn't loved you in years. You were just the accountant who stayed home while he built an empire!"

"An empire funded by my sweat and structured by my attorney," I noted dryly. "What do you want, Brooke?"

"I want you to drop the financial fraud suit against my brother's company," Brooke demanded, leaning over the desk. "Nathan gave that money to us legally as a bonus structure for marketing consulting!"

"Your brother owns a jet-ski rental business in Indiana, Brooke," I said, pulling a printout from my drawer. "He doesn't do supply chain logistics for high-end dining. It’s tax fraud, wire fraud, and grand larceny."

Brooke’s lips trembled. She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of printed photographs, tossing them onto my desk.

They were candid photos of Nathan and Brooke together on vacations in Cabo, Miami, and Paris—trips Nathan had told me were "supplier negotiation summits."

"If you don't drop the charges and give Nathan his share of the company," Brooke threatened, "I will send these to every press outlet in Chicago. I will destroy his reputation, and by extension, the brand reputation of Reed Culinary Group. You’ll be ruined!"

I looked at the photos. Three months ago, seeing them would have broken my heart. Today, looking at Nathan holding a champagne glass on a yacht while I was home taking care of a sick child, I felt absolutely nothing except a profound, liberating clarity.

I picked up the photos, neatly stacked them, and slid them into my desk drawer.

"Thank you, Brooke," I said sweetly.

Brooke blinked, confused. "What?"

"These photos prove that the eighty thousand dollars Nathan withdrew from our reserve account in October for a 'European Vineyard Assessment' was actually spent on a private villa in Paris for you," I explained. "You just handed me evidence of tax evasion that my legal team was trying to trace."

Brooke’s face drained of all color.

I reached for my desk phone and pressed the speed-dial for security. "Building security? I have a former employee in my office refusing to leave. Please escort Miss Lawson off the property, and if she returns, file a formal criminal trespass notice."

Brooke stood frozen as two large security guards stepped into the doorway behind her.