Chapter 4 - The Counter-Strike
The following morning, the financial district of Miami was alive with the sound of standard commerce, completely unaware of the corporate execution about to take place inside the offices of Foster Boat Brokerage.
Derek Foster sat at his sleek glass desk, his hands shaking as he pounded on his keyboard. He had spent the entire night at a cheap highway motel, his calls to Skylar blocked, his access to their joint checking account completely frozen. When he had attempted to use his corporate credit card to pay for his room that morning, the terminal had flashed a bright red error message: ACCOUNT RESTRICTED.
"Derek!" his boss, the regional director of the brokerage, barked as he threw open the office door. His face was purple with rage. "What the hell is this?"
He slammed a heavy legal packet onto Derek’s desk. It was an official Notice of Asset Garnishment and Temporary Restraining Order on Corporate Distributions, signed by a federal magistrate.
"My wife’s attorney filed an action," Derek stammered, trying to maintain his smooth, professional mask. "It’s a temporary domestic dispute, sir. It has nothing to do with the brokerage—"
"It has everything to do with us when your wife’s lawyer is Victoria Vance!" the director shouted. "She didn't just target your personal accounts, Derek. She filed a forensic audit petition against your commission ledger! She submitted evidence to the court showing that you have been hiding your corporate bonuses inside your sister’s boutique boutique shell account, Suzanne’s Luxe Style, to avoid marital property declaration! The state asset protection division has frozen our primary escrow account because your dirty money is mingled in it!"
Derek’s breath caught in his throat. The room seemed to spin. "She... she can't do that. That’s corporate property."
"She did it because she has the bank routing numbers, Derek. Your wife works in logistics; she knows how to trace international freight and wire transfers better than an FBI auditor! You’re suspended without pay until this is resolved. Get your things and get out of my office before I call security."
As Derek walked out of the mirrored office building, his cardboard box of desk belongings in his arms, his phone rang. It was Suzanne. She was screaming so loudly he had to hold the phone away from his ear.
"Derek! The bank just seized the boutique’s operating account!" she wailed. "The landlord of the store just served me an immediate eviction notice because the security deposit check bounced! They said there’s a legal lien placed on all my inventory! Everything is gone, Derek! The bags, the dresses, the shoes! What did you do to Skylar?!"
"I didn't do anything!" Derek hissed, ducking behind a palm tree to avoid the stare of his former coworkers. "I just threw a cup of coffee at her! She’s overreacting!"
"Well, her overreaction just put us on the street!" Suzanne roared. "The local news website just published a blotter report about the domestic violence injunction at the Biscayne apartment! My clients are canceling their personal styling appointments! They’re calling me an accessory to abuse on Instagram! You fix this, Derek! You fix this right now or I’m going to the police myself and telling them that you were the one who forced me to take her money!"
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Derek hung up the phone, a cold, oily sweat breaking out across his forehead. He looked up at the bright Miami sky, feeling the walls of his carefully constructed life closing in on him. He had thought Skylar was an object he owned, a quiet bank account he could draw from whenever his family needed to feed their vanity. He had never realized that beneath her quiet obedience lay the mind of a master strategist.
He pulled up his contacts and dialed a number for a private investigator he had used once for a client dispute. "Frank? It’s Derek Foster. I need you to find out where my wife is staying. And I need it done before she signs the final asset liquidation papers."
