Chapter 7 - THE CHARLOTTE PROCESSBy Tuesday morning, six days after I had walked out of the Charlotte apartment, my father, Sarah Lin, and a high-powered Charlotte family attorney named Arthur Vance sat in a private conference room on the twentieth floor of an Uptown Charlotte skyscraper.
Arthur Vance was a razor-sharp attorney with thirty years of experience handling high-profile, contested divorces and financial fraud cases.
He reviewed the documents laid out across the mahogany table—the photos from Grant’s safe, Vanessa’s binder, the tax fraud records, and the bank statements.
Arthur adjusted his glasses and looked at me over the rim. "Mrs. Cole—or should I say, Ms. Whitfield?"
"Ms. Whitfield," I said firmly.
"Ms. Whitfield," Arthur smiled thinly. "In my thirty years of practicing law in North Carolina, I have rarely seen a case of marital fraud this clean, this documented, and this egregious."
"What are our options, Arthur?" my father asked, leaning forward on his elbows.
"Options?" Arthur laughed softly. "We aren't just going for an annulment on the grounds of fraud, Raymond. We are filing an emergency petition for an ex-parte restraining order, an immediate freeze on all joint accounts, and a criminal referral to the North Carolina Department of Revenue and the IRS."
"How fast can we get him served?" I asked.
"I’m submitting the emergency petition to Judge Henderson at the county courthouse in two hours," Arthur said, sliding a document toward me. "By four o'clock this afternoon, Grant Cole will be legally served at his office in front of his employers and coworkers."
I signed my name at the bottom of the legal petition: Dana Whitfield.
At 3:45 PM that afternoon, my father and I sat in Arthur’s office, watching the live updates from the private process server Sarah Lin had hired.
My phone chimed.
Process server status: Target served at 3:42 PM at Atlantic HVAC Solutions headquarters. Restraining order active. Frozen asset notices delivered to bank.
Less than three minutes later, my phone began to buzz violently.
Grant.
I set the phone on the glass coffee table, letting it vibrate.
He called once. He called twice. He called five times in a row.
Then a text message popped up on the screen:
Grant: What the hell did you do?! My bank accounts are locked! My boss just called me into HR! Answer your phone, Dana! You’re ruining my life!
I stared at the screen, feeling zero fear. Zero regret.
I picked up the phone, tapped out a single reply, and hit send:
May you like
Dana: I didn't ruin your life, Grant. You did. See you in court.
Then I blocked his number forever.
