Chapter 5: Mask
The court recessed for thirty minutes. During the break, Marcus cornered me in the hallway.
"Vivienne." His voice was low, urgent. "What do you want? Money? A larger settlement? Name your price and we can end this privately."
I looked at him—this man I had loved so desperately—and felt nothing.
"I want the divorce. I want my patents back. I want full custody of Oliver. And I want a public apology."
His jaw clenched. "You're out of your mind."
"Then we continue," I said, and walked away.
When court resumed, it was Marcus's turn to present his case.
Grant Wheeler stood with theatrical gravitas. "Your Honor, while Ms. Ashford may have contributed to early research, she willingly transferred those patents as part of a marital partnership. She was compensated through the lifestyle she enjoyed—a $15 million home, luxury vehicles, staff, unlimited spending."
He turned to the camera. "What we have here is a bitter woman who, upon learning her husband has moved on emotionally, seeks to destroy the company that employs three thousand people."
He clicked his own remote. Photos appeared on screen—me at charity galas, on vacation in the Maldives, wearing designer gowns.
"Does this look like a woman who was exploited?" Wheeler asked.
The comments section—visible on the broadcast overlay—shifted.
*She lived like a queen and now she wants more?*
*Typical gold digger playing victim.*
*Those patents were probably his idea anyway.*
The SUPPORT bar dipped from 51% to 43%.
Then Marcus took the stand. His expression transformed—suddenly vulnerable, pained.
"I loved Vivienne," he said, his voice cracking. "I still love her. Yes, I made a mistake with Serena. I'm not proud of it. But my wife shut me out after her miscarriage. She became cold. Distant. I tried everything to reach her."
He wiped his eyes. "She stopped touching our son. She stopped coming to family dinners. I felt like I was living with a stranger."
Tears rolled down his cheek—perfectly timed.
"I'm not asking for sympathy," he continued. "I'm asking for fairness. Vivienne was a partner in building this company, yes. But so was I. So were three thousand employees who depend on us. Destroying Blackwell Industries in a personal vendetta isn't justice. It's cruelty."
The SUPPORT bar dropped to 38%.
Comments flooded in.
*He seems genuinely sorry.*
*She was cold to her own child? That's terrible.*
*Maybe she's not the victim she claims to be.*
Helena dabbed her eyes in the gallery. Serena gripped her hand with a look of practiced concern.
Patricia leaned toward me and whispered, "They're good. We need to push harder."
I nodded. "Not yet. Let them believe they're winning."
I looked into the camera, and I let my face crumble. I let them see weakness, confusion, pain.
It wasn't hard to fake. I had felt all of it, endlessly, for five years.
But the timing—that was strategic.
Let them think they had broken me. Let Marcus think his performance had worked.
Because what came next would shatter every illusion they'd built.
"Vivienne." His voice was low, urgent. "What do you want? Money? A larger settlement? Name your price and we can end this privately."
I looked at him—this man I had loved so desperately—and felt nothing.
"I want the divorce. I want my patents back. I want full custody of Oliver. And I want a public apology."
His jaw clenched. "You're out of your mind."
"Then we continue," I said, and walked away.
When court resumed, it was Marcus's turn to present his case.
Grant Wheeler stood with theatrical gravitas. "Your Honor, while Ms. Ashford may have contributed to early research, she willingly transferred those patents as part of a marital partnership. She was compensated through the lifestyle she enjoyed—a $15 million home, luxury vehicles, staff, unlimited spending."
He turned to the camera. "What we have here is a bitter woman who, upon learning her husband has moved on emotionally, seeks to destroy the company that employs three thousand people."
He clicked his own remote. Photos appeared on screen—me at charity galas, on vacation in the Maldives, wearing designer gowns.
"Does this look like a woman who was exploited?" Wheeler asked.
The comments section—visible on the broadcast overlay—shifted.
*She lived like a queen and now she wants more?*
*Typical gold digger playing victim.*
*Those patents were probably his idea anyway.*
The SUPPORT bar dipped from 51% to 43%.
Then Marcus took the stand. His expression transformed—suddenly vulnerable, pained.
"I loved Vivienne," he said, his voice cracking. "I still love her. Yes, I made a mistake with Serena. I'm not proud of it. But my wife shut me out after her miscarriage. She became cold. Distant. I tried everything to reach her."
He wiped his eyes. "She stopped touching our son. She stopped coming to family dinners. I felt like I was living with a stranger."
Tears rolled down his cheek—perfectly timed.
"I'm not asking for sympathy," he continued. "I'm asking for fairness. Vivienne was a partner in building this company, yes. But so was I. So were three thousand employees who depend on us. Destroying Blackwell Industries in a personal vendetta isn't justice. It's cruelty."
The SUPPORT bar dropped to 38%.
Comments flooded in.
*He seems genuinely sorry.*
*She was cold to her own child? That's terrible.*
*Maybe she's not the victim she claims to be.*
Helena dabbed her eyes in the gallery. Serena gripped her hand with a look of practiced concern.
Patricia leaned toward me and whispered, "They're good. We need to push harder."
I nodded. "Not yet. Let them believe they're winning."
I looked into the camera, and I let my face crumble. I let them see weakness, confusion, pain.
It wasn't hard to fake. I had felt all of it, endlessly, for five years.
But the timing—that was strategic.
Let them think they had broken me. Let Marcus think his performance had worked.
Because what came next would shatter every illusion they'd built.