I crept up the stairs of a lake house to find my wife in another man's arms—laughing about how easily she had drugged my drink.

By noon, I was sitting in the corner office of Claire Sterling, one of Charlotte’s top forensic family and corporate attorneys. Claire was sharp, silver-haired, and possessed the predatory calm of someone who had dissected hundred-million-dollar conglomerates for breakfast.

I placed my tablet on her glass desk: the photos from the lake house, the bank routing trails to Vantage Crest, and the unauthorized transfers of Continental Freight’s proprietary bidding algorithms.

Claire reviewed the files in silence, her brow arching higher with every swipe.

“Your wife didn’t just step outside the marriage, Ethan,” Claire said, looking up. “She and Holloway conspired to commit wire fraud and theft of trade secrets. If you file standard divorce papers today, Grant liquidates the offshore LLC, Natalie claims ignorance, and you spend three years fighting over remnants in civil court while your employer launches an internal audit against you.”

“I don’t want a standard divorce,” I said. “I want my name completely cleared, our stolen capital returned to the cent, and Holloway locked out of the logistics sector entirely.”

Claire leaned back, a cold, satisfied grin touching her lips. “Then we don’t file today. We let Holloway think his deal is going through. He’s hosting the regional commercial zoning gala on Friday night to announce his new logistics terminal, correct?”

“Yes. He expects Continental Freight to sign his anchor lease.”