Chapter 3: Broadcast
The concept was simple. City Court TV broadcast real divorce cases to millions of viewers who voted on public opinion polls throughout the proceedings. It was entertainment dressed as justice—and it was the most-watched program in the country.
The hook was this: viewer opinion polls influenced judicial discretion in asset division. If the public overwhelmingly sided with one party, judges factored that into their rulings.
It was controversial. It was sensational. And it was exactly what I needed.
Marcus would never agree, of course. So I didn't ask him.
Under state law, any party could request a public proceeding. Marcus's legal team could object, but given that Blackwell Industries was a publicly traded company, transparency was difficult to argue against.
When Marcus received the notification that our divorce would be broadcast live, he called me for the first time in three days.
"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.
"Exercising my legal rights."
"You're going to humiliate yourself on national television, Vivienne. Everyone will see that you're nothing more than a bitter housewife who couldn't keep her husband satisfied."
I said nothing.
"Think about Oliver. Think about what his classmates will say."
"I am thinking about Oliver," I said softly. "That's why I need the world to see the truth."
He hung up.
The broadcast was scheduled to begin in forty-eight hours.
What Marcus didn't know—what none of them knew—was that I had spent the past three months preparing a case that would dismantle Blackwell Industries from the inside out.
Every patent. Every algorithm. Every line of code that powered their products—I had the originals, timestamped and notarized, predating Blackwell's filing by months.
The night before the broadcast, Serena showed up at my hotel room.
She was dressed impeccably, her confidence radiating like a weapon.
"Vivienne," she said sweetly. "Woman to woman, let me be honest with you."
"Please," I said flatly.
"Marcus loves me. He has for years. The kind thing—the dignified thing—would be to step aside gracefully. Take whatever settlement they offer and start fresh. No cameras. No spectacle."
I studied her face. She was twenty-six. Beautiful. Unburdened.
"And if I don't?" I asked.
Her sweetness evaporated. "Then you'll be torn apart on live television. A dried-up housewife versus the woman who actually helped build Marcus's empire. Who do you think the audience will root for?"
She leaned closer and whispered, "I know things about you, Vivienne. How you cried yourself to sleep. How you begged Marcus for attention. How you fell apart after the miscarriage. The audience will see a broken, pathetic woman. And they'll side with the winner."
I held her gaze without blinking.
"Get out of my room, Serena."
She straightened, smoothed her skirt, and smiled. "See you on air, Mrs. Blackwell."
After she left, I sat in darkness for a long time.
Then I opened my laptop, pulled up the encrypted server, and reviewed every piece of evidence one final time.
*Tomorrow*, I thought. *Tomorrow they'll learn what it means to underestimate me.*
The hook was this: viewer opinion polls influenced judicial discretion in asset division. If the public overwhelmingly sided with one party, judges factored that into their rulings.
It was controversial. It was sensational. And it was exactly what I needed.
Marcus would never agree, of course. So I didn't ask him.
Under state law, any party could request a public proceeding. Marcus's legal team could object, but given that Blackwell Industries was a publicly traded company, transparency was difficult to argue against.
When Marcus received the notification that our divorce would be broadcast live, he called me for the first time in three days.
"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.
"Exercising my legal rights."
"You're going to humiliate yourself on national television, Vivienne. Everyone will see that you're nothing more than a bitter housewife who couldn't keep her husband satisfied."
I said nothing.
"Think about Oliver. Think about what his classmates will say."
"I am thinking about Oliver," I said softly. "That's why I need the world to see the truth."
He hung up.
The broadcast was scheduled to begin in forty-eight hours.
What Marcus didn't know—what none of them knew—was that I had spent the past three months preparing a case that would dismantle Blackwell Industries from the inside out.
Every patent. Every algorithm. Every line of code that powered their products—I had the originals, timestamped and notarized, predating Blackwell's filing by months.
The night before the broadcast, Serena showed up at my hotel room.
She was dressed impeccably, her confidence radiating like a weapon.
"Vivienne," she said sweetly. "Woman to woman, let me be honest with you."
"Please," I said flatly.
"Marcus loves me. He has for years. The kind thing—the dignified thing—would be to step aside gracefully. Take whatever settlement they offer and start fresh. No cameras. No spectacle."
I studied her face. She was twenty-six. Beautiful. Unburdened.
"And if I don't?" I asked.
Her sweetness evaporated. "Then you'll be torn apart on live television. A dried-up housewife versus the woman who actually helped build Marcus's empire. Who do you think the audience will root for?"
She leaned closer and whispered, "I know things about you, Vivienne. How you cried yourself to sleep. How you begged Marcus for attention. How you fell apart after the miscarriage. The audience will see a broken, pathetic woman. And they'll side with the winner."
I held her gaze without blinking.
"Get out of my room, Serena."
She straightened, smoothed her skirt, and smiled. "See you on air, Mrs. Blackwell."
After she left, I sat in darkness for a long time.
Then I opened my laptop, pulled up the encrypted server, and reviewed every piece of evidence one final time.
*Tomorrow*, I thought. *Tomorrow they'll learn what it means to underestimate me.*