Chapter 8: The First Countermove
The glow of my laptop screen illuminated the dark study, casting harsh blue light across my face as I scrolled through the digital folder of corporate filings I had just downloaded from our home server. Every document confirmed the scale of the trap. Julian hadn't just been sleeping with my wife; he had been systematically siphoning proprietary client accounts from our joint consulting firm into a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands under a generic LLC name. Elena had signed off on every corporate resolution as the corporate secretary, trading our family’s financial security for promises of a penthouse apartment and a clean break.
I reached for my desk phone and punched in a ten-digit number from memory—Marcus Vance, senior partner at Vance & Sterling, the most ruthless corporate litigation firm in the state. Marcus and I had played college hockey together twenty years ago before our paths diverged into high-stakes corporate law. We hadn't spoken in three years, largely because Elena had always found his cynical, aggressive demeanor "unsuitable for polite company." That alone was proof he was the exact man I needed right now.
The phone rang twice before a gravelly, deeply awake voice answered on the other end. "Vance."
"Marcus, it’s Marcus Miller," I said, my voice steady, stripped of all the exhaustion that weighed down my bones.
There was a brief pause on the line, the sound of a heavy paper folder closing in the background. "Miller? It’s past midnight on a Saturday, Marcus. Unless your house is on fire or your wife is trying to poison you, this better be good."
"As a matter of fact," I replied, staring down at the brown manila envelope resting beside my keyboard, "both of those things are remarkably close to the truth. I need you in your office at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I’m sending you a file containing a masterclass in corporate embezzlement and premeditated marital fraud. I want every asset frozen before the markets open on Monday morning."
The line went entirely silent for three seconds. When Marcus spoke again, all the sleepiness was gone from his voice, replaced by the razor-sharp focus of a predator smelling blood in the water. "Send the file. I’ll clear my entire Sunday schedule. Who's the other party?"
May you like
"Julian Vance—no relation to you—and my wife, Elena."
A low, appreciative whistle echoed through the earpiece. "Well, well. Sounds like someone brought a knife to a drone strike. I'll have the emergency injunctions drafted before you finish your coffee. See you at eight, Marcus. Let's go ruin some lives."
