Chapter 7 - Reclaiming Bennett
I dropped the name Whitmore the day the divorce decree was signed by the judge.
I was Eleanor Bennett once again.
I bought a small, beautiful sunlit cottage thirty miles outside the city, nestled among towering pine trees and wild magnolia bushes. It had a wraparound porch, a large kitchen with open wooden shelves, and a backyard where my father’s old golden retriever could run free in the grass.
I opened my own independent forensic consulting firm: Bennett Investigations.
Within four months, my desk was overflowing with cases. Women from all across the state—wives of powerful men, female executives facing corporate retaliation, and victims of financial abuse—came to my office seeking the one thing I knew how to deliver better than anyone else: evidence.
One rainy afternoon in October, a young woman named Clara sat across from me in my sunlit office, trembling as she held a cup of chamomile tea.
“His lawyers told me I won't get anything,” Clara whispered, tears falling down her pale cheeks. “He hid all his assets in offshore trusts before he served me with divorce papers. He told me if I fight him, he’ll take my children.”
I leaned across my desk, handing her a handkerchief, looking at her with a gentle, unwavering warmth.
“What is your husband’s name, Clara?” I asked.
“Marcus Croft,” she choked out. “He owns Croft Logistics.”
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I opened a fresh leather-bound binder on my desk, picking up my silver pen.
“Well, Clara,” I said with a soft, confident smile, “Marcus Croft is about to learn that hiding money from an angry wife is hard... but hiding it from Eleanor Bennett is impossible.”
