Chapter 2: Ultimatum
The next morning, Marcus's lawyer sent me a message: *Due to the prenuptial agreement you signed, you are entitled to nothing in the event of divorce. We advise you to reconsider.*
I almost smiled.
The prenup. Of course. I remembered signing it five years ago, Helena standing over me with a pen, telling me it was "standard procedure."
What none of them knew was that I'd had the prenup reviewed by my own attorney the day after the wedding. Buried in the fine print was a clause—one Helena's lawyer had inserted carelessly, never expecting it to matter.
*In the event of proven infidelity by either party, the prenuptial agreement is rendered void, and all marital assets shall be subject to equitable division.*
Marcus had no idea what equitable division would look like when a judge discovered that the "marital assets" were built on stolen intellectual property.
But I wasn't ready to play that card. Not yet.
I was staying at a modest hotel downtown. That afternoon, Helena appeared at my door uninvited.
She swept into the room, wrinkling her nose at the plain furnishings.
"Vivienne, I'll be direct," she said. "Drop this divorce nonsense. You're embarrassing yourself and our family name."
"Your family name," I corrected.
Her eyes narrowed. "You have a child with my son. Think about Oliver."
The mention of Oliver sent a crack through my armor. My boy. My sweet, confused boy who had been methodically turned against me over the past year.
"Oliver is the only reason I didn't leave sooner," I said quietly.
Helena's tone shifted to something almost gentle—her most dangerous register. "Then stay for him. Marcus may have his... indiscretions, but what man doesn't? You have a comfortable life. A beautiful home. A son who needs his mother present, not dragging the family through court."
"A son who calls another woman 'Mama Serena,'" I said.
Helena didn't flinch. "Children are adaptable. You're the one being rigid."
"Get out," I said.
For a moment, genuine shock registered on her face. In five years, I had never spoken to her without deference.
"Excuse me?"
"I said get out. And tell Marcus that if the divorce isn't filed cooperatively within seven days, I'll file it publicly."
Helena's composure cracked. A flash of something—fear?—crossed her features before the mask slid back into place.
"You'll regret this, Vivienne. You have no idea what you're throwing away."
After she left, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling.
Not from fear. From anticipation.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
*Ms. Ashford, this is Rachel Torres from City Court TV. We've received a tip about your divorce filing. Our network broadcasts high-profile divorce proceedings live. Would you be open to a conversation?*
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I typed: *Yes.*
I almost smiled.
The prenup. Of course. I remembered signing it five years ago, Helena standing over me with a pen, telling me it was "standard procedure."
What none of them knew was that I'd had the prenup reviewed by my own attorney the day after the wedding. Buried in the fine print was a clause—one Helena's lawyer had inserted carelessly, never expecting it to matter.
*In the event of proven infidelity by either party, the prenuptial agreement is rendered void, and all marital assets shall be subject to equitable division.*
Marcus had no idea what equitable division would look like when a judge discovered that the "marital assets" were built on stolen intellectual property.
But I wasn't ready to play that card. Not yet.
I was staying at a modest hotel downtown. That afternoon, Helena appeared at my door uninvited.
She swept into the room, wrinkling her nose at the plain furnishings.
"Vivienne, I'll be direct," she said. "Drop this divorce nonsense. You're embarrassing yourself and our family name."
"Your family name," I corrected.
Her eyes narrowed. "You have a child with my son. Think about Oliver."
The mention of Oliver sent a crack through my armor. My boy. My sweet, confused boy who had been methodically turned against me over the past year.
"Oliver is the only reason I didn't leave sooner," I said quietly.
Helena's tone shifted to something almost gentle—her most dangerous register. "Then stay for him. Marcus may have his... indiscretions, but what man doesn't? You have a comfortable life. A beautiful home. A son who needs his mother present, not dragging the family through court."
"A son who calls another woman 'Mama Serena,'" I said.
Helena didn't flinch. "Children are adaptable. You're the one being rigid."
"Get out," I said.
For a moment, genuine shock registered on her face. In five years, I had never spoken to her without deference.
"Excuse me?"
"I said get out. And tell Marcus that if the divorce isn't filed cooperatively within seven days, I'll file it publicly."
Helena's composure cracked. A flash of something—fear?—crossed her features before the mask slid back into place.
"You'll regret this, Vivienne. You have no idea what you're throwing away."
After she left, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling.
Not from fear. From anticipation.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
*Ms. Ashford, this is Rachel Torres from City Court TV. We've received a tip about your divorce filing. Our network broadcasts high-profile divorce proceedings live. Would you be open to a conversation?*
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I typed: *Yes.*