Chapter 4 - The Scramble
Forty-eight hours later.
The high-end conference room of Miller & Vance Family Law overlooked the rain-swept expanse of Millennium Park.
I sat at the long mahogany table, flanked by my attorney, Victoria Vance—a terrifyingly sharp woman in her late fifties with silver hair and a reputation for stripping dishonest spouses down to their last nickel.
Across from us sat Nathaniel, looking pale, drawn, and distinctly frail in a suit that suddenly seemed two sizes too big for him. Beside him was his defense attorney, an overly polished man named Greg Sterling, who looked as though he had spent the last two days realizing he was fighting a losing war.
Susan and Robert sat in the gallery seats behind Nate. Susan looked diminished, her former arrogance completely deflated.
"Let's make one thing very clear," Victoria Vance began, placing a thick black binder on the table with a heavy thud. "We are not here to negotiate a reconciliation. We are here to execute a clean, immediate dissolution of marriage on the grounds of irreconcilable differences, gross financial fraud, and marital waste."
Sterling cleared his throat, adjusting his silk tie. "Ms. Vance, my client acknowledges that his personal conduct was... questionable. However, Mr. Turner is recovering from a severe medical emergency. A stressful litigation process could severely compromise his recovery—"
"Your client suffered from drug-induced dehydration and electrolyte depletion brought on by illicit prescription abuse while committing adultery," Victoria interrupted without missing a beat. "If you want to enter his medical records into public court proceedings, Mr. Sterling, please do. It will make our claim for full asset division even stronger."
Sterling bit his lip, casting a dark glance at Nate.
"Now," Victoria continued, flipping open the binder. "Let's talk about the brownstone in Lincoln Park. Appraised at 1.8 million dollars. Purchased three years ago with a down payment of four hundred thousand dollars."
"That down payment came from my client's inheritance from his grandfather!" Sterling asserted quickly.
"Correction," I spoke up, my voice calm, icy, and authoritative. "The down payment came from a joint account into which my salary as a senior surgical resident was deposited. Nathaniel’s actual contribution to that account over three years was less than twelve percent."
Nate looked at the table, his hands clenched tightly beneath the wood.
"Furthermore," Victoria pointed to a set of highlighted financial statements, "Mr. Nathaniel Turner forged Dr. Hannah Turner’s signature on an equity line of credit for sixty-five thousand dollars. That money was funneled directly into an account used to pay rent, furnishings, and a monthly allowance for a Ms. Khloe Mercer."
"That was a business expense!" Nate burst out, looking up wildly. "Khloe was an independent contractor! I was securing housing for a key employee—"
"In navy silk pajamas?" I asked quietly, raising an eyebrow.
Nate snapped his mouth shut.
Victoria smiled—a sharp, wolfish grin. "We have already subpoenaed the security footage from Ms. Mercer’s apartment building. It shows Mr. Turner entering and leaving the residence at all hours of the night over a four-month period, often carrying luxury shopping bags from Saks Fifth Avenue and Cartier."
"My God, Nathaniel..." Robert muttered from the back row, placing his hand over his face in sheer embarrassment.
"So, here are our terms," Victoria said, sliding a document across the table to Sterling.
"One: Dr. Turner retains sole ownership of the Lincoln Park brownstone.
Two: Mr. Turner will immediately liquidate his shares in Turner & Associates to repay the sixty-five thousand dollar fraudulent loan, plus interest and legal fees.
Three: Mr. Turner waives all claims to Dr. Turner’s current and future earnings, medical practice equity, and retirement accounts.
Four: You have twenty-four hours to sign, or we file criminal fraud charges with the Cook County State's Attorney regarding the forged loan documents."
Sterling read through the document rapidly. He leaned over to Nate and whispered frantically in his ear for nearly two minutes.
Nate’s face went from pale to ash gray. He looked at me across the table—his eyes filled with panic, regret, and the realization that the woman he had treated like a quiet accessory for eight years held his entire future in her hands.
"Hannah..." Nate choked out, his eyes swimming with tears. "Please... you're destroying me. I won't have anything left."
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I looked at him—the man who had let his mother belittle me, the man who had lied about my career to protect his fragile ego, the man who had stolen my money to buy silk pajamas for another woman.
"You brought this on yourself, Nathaniel," I said softly. "Sign the paper."
