Chapter 6 - The Counter-Attack
Two weeks later, the legal battle shifted from property eviction to financial warfare.
Griffin’s defense attorney—a high-priced corporate shark hired in a desperate panic—filed an emergency motion claiming that despite the pre-marital trust, Griffin was entitled to a massive spousal support payout and a fifty percent division of the estate’s equity appreciation during our twelve-year marriage.
They clearly thought I would settle out of court just to avoid a messy, public trial.
They didn't know Katherine Vance.
Sitting in the glass conference room on a rainy Thursday afternoon, Katherine tossed a thick folder across the table toward me with a smug little smile.
“They tried to play hardball,” Katherine said, leaning back in her leather chair. “They claimed Griffin contributed sweat equity to the home renovation back in 2018, and therefore deserves a multi-million-dollar payout from the property’s value spike.”
“And?” I asked, opening the folder.
“And our forensic audit discovered something fascinating,” Katherine said, tapping a finger against a printed bank statement. “Three weeks before we filed for divorce, Griffin quietly transferred two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from a corporate development account into a private offshore holding LLC registered under Ilsa’s maiden name. He was trying to stash marital assets to fund their new lifestyle downtown.”
My eyes scanned the numbers. The paper trail was pristine, undeniable, and utterly devastating for Griffin’s legal standing.
“Asset dissipation during pending divorce proceedings,” I noted, looking up at her. “In this state, that’s criminal fraud, not just a civil dispute.”
“Precisely,” Katherine smiled like a cat that had just cornered a canary. “Not only does this completely void any claim he had to spousal support, but it opens him up to immediate criminal referral and total forfeiture of any remaining marital assets held in his name. In short, Griffin is legally and financially broken.”
As if on cue, my phone chimed on the table.
It was an unknown number, but caller ID indicated a local downtown cell. I let it go to voicemail, but a moment later, a text message popped up on the screen.
From Griffin: Elena, please. You have to call off your lawyer. They’re threatening me with criminal fraud charges. Mom is having panic attacks, we can't pay the rent on this apartment, and my firm is launching an internal compliance review. Please... let's just talk like civilized people.
I stared at the message for a long, quiet moment.
Twelve years of marriage. Twelve years of walking on eggshells around his mother, of biting my tongue when she insulted my intelligence, of watching him shrink away from confrontation while my daughters learned that their father would never stand up for them.
I didn't feel anger anymore. I didn't even feel pity.
I simply felt free.
I tapped out a short, final reply:
All communication goes through my attorney. Do not contact me directly ever again.
I blocked the number, locked the phone, and slid it back into my bag.
“Everything handled?” Katherine asked, watching me with an approving glint in her eye.
May you like
“Everything is handled,” I replied, standing up and smoothing down my blazer. “When is our next court date?”
“Monday morning,” she said, gathering her papers. “We’re going to finalize the default judgment and sign over full custody and property titles exclusively to you. Your ex-husband is about to become a very poor man.”
