Chapter 9
The news broke forty-eight hours after the hearing.
Not from me. Not from Janet. From someone inside the courthouse who leaked the case details to a financial journalist.
The headline hit Bloomberg first:
**"Senior VP at Reid & Associates Under Investigation for Hidden Assets, Alleged Financial Abuse of Spouse"**
By noon it was everywhere. Business Insider. The New York Post. Twitter.
My phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Numbers I didn't recognize. Reporters. Old classmates. Even Marcus's colleagues.
Janet called me at 2 PM.
"Are you seeing this?"
"I'm seeing it."
"Marcus's firm just placed him on administrative leave. Pending internal investigation." She paused. "Clara, this is moving faster than I anticipated. The FBI is escalating. They found discrepancies between what Marcus declared on his taxes and what actually exists in those offshore accounts."
"What does that mean?"
"It means this isn't just a divorce anymore. He could face federal charges. Tax evasion. Wire fraud. Possibly money laundering depending on how the shell companies were structured."
I sat down on the edge of my hotel bed. My legs felt weak—not from fear, but from the sheer velocity of it all.
One month ago I was counting quarters for the laundromat.
Now my husband was on the national news.
"What do I do?" I asked.
"Nothing. You've done everything right. Let the system work." Her voice turned serious. "But I need to warn you—the public attention will bring pressure. Marcus's team will try to control the narrative. They'll paint you as the bitter ex-wife."
"I know."
"Don't engage. Don't post anything online. Don't talk to reporters."
"I won't."
That evening I made myself instant soup in the hotel room's tiny microwave and sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through the news coverage.
The comments sections were split. Some people were outraged on my behalf. Others—mostly anonymous accounts—called me a gold digger.
*"She married rich and now she wants half? Classic."*
*"Maybe she should've gotten a better job instead of playing victim."*
*"Sounds like she's making it up for a payout."*
Each comment stung. But I kept reading. I needed to understand what I was up against.
Then I found Vanessa's response.
She'd posted a long statement on social media. Complete with a tearful selfie—mascara artfully smudged, hand pressed to her chest.
*"I'm heartbroken by the accusations being made against someone I've loved like a brother my entire life. Marcus Reed is a kind, generous, brilliant man who has only ever tried to help those around him. The woman making these claims is driven by jealousy and spite. I know the truth will come out. I stand with Marcus. Always. 💔"*
Twelve thousand likes. Hundreds of supportive comments.
*"Stay strong queen!"*
*"Some women can't handle seeing other women being taken care of."*
*"Jealousy is UGLY. Hope you're okay babe."*
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I closed the app and set my phone face-down.
Let them talk. Let Vanessa perform. The courtroom didn't care about Instagram likes.
The next morning I received a text from an unknown number—different from Vanessa's blocked one.
*Clara. It's Marcus. I'm using a colleague's phone because you blocked me.*
*I need to see you. In person. Please. I'm begging.*
*I made mistakes. I know that. But I can fix this. We can fix this. Just give me one conversation.*
*Please.*
I read it three times.
A month ago—maybe even a week ago—this would have worked. The desperation. The word "please." The implication that our marriage could still be saved.
But I kept seeing that email. *Women like Clara don't need much. She's built for survival.*
He didn't love me. He'd never loved me.
He just needed me back in my cage before the walls closed in on him completely.
I typed a single response:
*Talk to my lawyer.*
Then I blocked that number too.
That afternoon Janet forwarded me a new filing from Marcus's attorney. A counter-motion requesting the court consider "reconciliation counseling" before proceeding with asset division.
"He's stalling," Janet said. "Trying to buy time to move money we haven't found yet."
"Can he?"
"Not with the freeze in place. But he's desperate. Desperate men do desperate things." She paused. "Clara, I need to tell you something else."
"What?"
"Our investigator found a fourth property. Not in Marcus's name. Not in Vanessa's."
My stomach dropped. "Whose?"
"It's registered to an LLC called 'Lily Dawn Holdings.' The sole member is listed as a woman named Dawn Huang."
"Dawn Huang?"
"Vanessa's mother."
I closed my eyes. The web just kept spreading.
"It's a penthouse in SoHo," Janet continued. "Purchased fourteen months ago for 4.2 million dollars. We believe Marcus funneled the money through a series of transfers designed to obscure the source."
Four point two million. Hidden behind his mistress's mother's name.
"Janet," I said quietly. "How much more is there?"
She was silent for a moment.
"I honestly don't know. But we're going to find every last cent."
---
Not from me. Not from Janet. From someone inside the courthouse who leaked the case details to a financial journalist.
The headline hit Bloomberg first:
**"Senior VP at Reid & Associates Under Investigation for Hidden Assets, Alleged Financial Abuse of Spouse"**
By noon it was everywhere. Business Insider. The New York Post. Twitter.
My phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Numbers I didn't recognize. Reporters. Old classmates. Even Marcus's colleagues.
Janet called me at 2 PM.
"Are you seeing this?"
"I'm seeing it."
"Marcus's firm just placed him on administrative leave. Pending internal investigation." She paused. "Clara, this is moving faster than I anticipated. The FBI is escalating. They found discrepancies between what Marcus declared on his taxes and what actually exists in those offshore accounts."
"What does that mean?"
"It means this isn't just a divorce anymore. He could face federal charges. Tax evasion. Wire fraud. Possibly money laundering depending on how the shell companies were structured."
I sat down on the edge of my hotel bed. My legs felt weak—not from fear, but from the sheer velocity of it all.
One month ago I was counting quarters for the laundromat.
Now my husband was on the national news.
"What do I do?" I asked.
"Nothing. You've done everything right. Let the system work." Her voice turned serious. "But I need to warn you—the public attention will bring pressure. Marcus's team will try to control the narrative. They'll paint you as the bitter ex-wife."
"I know."
"Don't engage. Don't post anything online. Don't talk to reporters."
"I won't."
That evening I made myself instant soup in the hotel room's tiny microwave and sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through the news coverage.
The comments sections were split. Some people were outraged on my behalf. Others—mostly anonymous accounts—called me a gold digger.
*"She married rich and now she wants half? Classic."*
*"Maybe she should've gotten a better job instead of playing victim."*
*"Sounds like she's making it up for a payout."*
Each comment stung. But I kept reading. I needed to understand what I was up against.
Then I found Vanessa's response.
She'd posted a long statement on social media. Complete with a tearful selfie—mascara artfully smudged, hand pressed to her chest.
*"I'm heartbroken by the accusations being made against someone I've loved like a brother my entire life. Marcus Reed is a kind, generous, brilliant man who has only ever tried to help those around him. The woman making these claims is driven by jealousy and spite. I know the truth will come out. I stand with Marcus. Always. 💔"*
Twelve thousand likes. Hundreds of supportive comments.
*"Stay strong queen!"*
*"Some women can't handle seeing other women being taken care of."*
*"Jealousy is UGLY. Hope you're okay babe."*
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I closed the app and set my phone face-down.
Let them talk. Let Vanessa perform. The courtroom didn't care about Instagram likes.
The next morning I received a text from an unknown number—different from Vanessa's blocked one.
*Clara. It's Marcus. I'm using a colleague's phone because you blocked me.*
*I need to see you. In person. Please. I'm begging.*
*I made mistakes. I know that. But I can fix this. We can fix this. Just give me one conversation.*
*Please.*
I read it three times.
A month ago—maybe even a week ago—this would have worked. The desperation. The word "please." The implication that our marriage could still be saved.
But I kept seeing that email. *Women like Clara don't need much. She's built for survival.*
He didn't love me. He'd never loved me.
He just needed me back in my cage before the walls closed in on him completely.
I typed a single response:
*Talk to my lawyer.*
Then I blocked that number too.
That afternoon Janet forwarded me a new filing from Marcus's attorney. A counter-motion requesting the court consider "reconciliation counseling" before proceeding with asset division.
"He's stalling," Janet said. "Trying to buy time to move money we haven't found yet."
"Can he?"
"Not with the freeze in place. But he's desperate. Desperate men do desperate things." She paused. "Clara, I need to tell you something else."
"What?"
"Our investigator found a fourth property. Not in Marcus's name. Not in Vanessa's."
My stomach dropped. "Whose?"
"It's registered to an LLC called 'Lily Dawn Holdings.' The sole member is listed as a woman named Dawn Huang."
"Dawn Huang?"
"Vanessa's mother."
I closed my eyes. The web just kept spreading.
"It's a penthouse in SoHo," Janet continued. "Purchased fourteen months ago for 4.2 million dollars. We believe Marcus funneled the money through a series of transfers designed to obscure the source."
Four point two million. Hidden behind his mistress's mother's name.
"Janet," I said quietly. "How much more is there?"
She was silent for a moment.
"I honestly don't know. But we're going to find every last cent."
---