Chapter 2 - The Ice Beneath the Surface
Derek’s hand shook as he pressed the phone to his ear.
“Derek Foster?” a stern male voice spoke through the speaker.
“This... this is Derek,” he stammered, looking at his sister, who was frantically tapping her phone screen, trying to process her online shopping cart only to see ACCESS DENIED flashes across the screen.
“Mr. Foster, this is Officer Ramirez with the Miami-Dade Police Department,” the voice declared, cold and official. “We are currently in possession of a domestic violence report filed by your wife, Skylar Bennett, along with medical documentation of second-degree burns and an audio recording from your residence this morning.”
Derek felt a sudden, icy knot twist in his gut. His polite mask shattered entirely. “Listen, Officer, this is a complete misunderstanding. My wife is hysterical. She spilled coffee on herself during a minor household argument—”
“Mr. Foster,” Officer Ramirez interrupted sharply. “We have heard the audio file. Furthermore, an emergency protective order has been signed by a judge. You have two hours to vacate the property at 1402 Biscayne Boulevard. If you are found within five hundred feet of the premises after 3:00 PM today, or if you make any attempt to contact Skylar Bennett directly or through third parties, you will be arrested on sight.”
The line went dead.
Derek stared at the phone as if it had turned into a venomous snake.
“Derek!” Suzanne shrieked, grabbing his arm. “What is happening?! The bank just declined my car payment! They said my authorized user status was revoked for suspicious activity! Fix this right now! Call her!”
“I can't call her!” Derek roared, shoving her hand off his sleeve, his face flushed with panicked rage. “She called the police! She reported the coffee! She recorded me!”
“She what?!” Suzanne gasped, stumbling back against the counter. “You let that little nobody record you?! Are you insane, Derek? How am I supposed to pay my rent this month? How am I supposed to pay off my lease? You promised me she’d take care of it!”
“Shut up, Suzanne!” Derek screamed, sweeping his arm across the island and knocking a glass vase to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. “Just shut up! She locked the accounts! She locked the apartment deed! Everything was in her name!”
For six years, Derek had lived like a king on Skylar’s quiet, disciplined labor. He had bought custom suits, taken Suzanne to expensive dinners, and presented himself as a wealthy financial consultant to his friends, all while Skylar worked sixty hours a week paying off the mortgage and covering his hidden debts.
He had believed she was too submissive, too beaten down by his constant emotional manipulation to ever fight back. He had believed that taking away her confidence would keep her under his thumb forever.
He was wrong.
At that moment, the front door lock clicked.
Two uniformed police officers stepped into the apartment, accompanied by a tall, sharp-looking woman in a charcoal-grey power suit carrying a leather briefcase.
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This was Eleanor Vance—Miami’s most ruthless high-conflict divorce attorney, hired three hours ago by Skylar Bennett.
“Mr. Foster,” Eleanor said smoothly, stepping into the foyer with absolute authority. “I see you haven't started packing. You have precisely forty-five minutes to take your personal clothing and leave my client’s home.”
