Chapter 5: The Ledger of Sins
Donovan was tossed into the VIP elevator like a bag of garbage. Brenda was sobbing uncontrollably next to him. But in Donovan’s twisted, desperate mind, a greedy light flared. He realized that as long as he refused to sign divorce papers, her money was marital property. Even one percent of five billion was more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. He resolved to endure any beating. He wouldn’t sign.
When the elevator doors opened in the main lobby, Donovan lifted his head. Standing there were two uniformed NYPD officers alongside the general counsel for Apex Solutions.
Ten minutes later, Donovan found himself shoved into a private conference room on the first floor. Across a long mahogany table sat three elite senior partners from the Prescott legal team. In the center, Harrison Cole pushed his frameless glasses up his nose.
“I am not signing this! This is absurd!” Donovan slammed his hand down on the table, pointing at the fifty-page divorce and asset division agreement. “I am Eleanor’s legal husband! What do you mean I walk away with zero and I owe you eight million dollars? This is extortion!”
Harrison didn’t blink. He simply turned a page in his heavily stamped binder. “Mr. Hayes, raising your voice does not alter the facts. $8,274,000. That is an exact figure down to the cent. This isn’t an asset division. This is the total amount of restitution and damages you owe Miss Prescott.”
Donovan gasped for breath. “Whatever assets she has, if they generated revenue during our marriage, that is community property! How much interest did that five billion make in three years? I demand to see Eleanor face to face!”
Harrison glanced up, his eyes holding the cold indifference reserved for a dead man walking. “Mr. Hayes, you possess zero understanding of how trust funds operate. Miss Prescott’s trust is an offshore, irrevocable dynasty trust seated in the Cayman Islands. During your marriage, this trust has not dispersed a single cent in dividends to her personal accounts. Legally speaking, that money has less connection to you than you do to the security guard standing in the lobby.”
Donovan’s eye twitched violently. “What about the apartment?! That two-bedroom we live in! My name is the only one on the deed. I paid the down payment out of my salary!”
The female attorney sitting to Harrison’s left snapped her laptop open. “Down payment on the apartment: $80,000. Mr. Hayes, three years ago, your personal bank balance was $2,000. The day before the down payment cleared, a wire transfer of $80,000 came in from an offshore shell company wholly owned by Miss Prescott.”
She hit a key, and a massive spreadsheet populated the screen. “Your monthly mortgage was drafted from your account. However, on the 10th of every month, Miss Prescott transferred $3,000 into your joint checking for living expenses. You used her money to fund your life, freeing up your salary to pay the mortgage. In a court of law, this is co-mingling of marital assets. Miss Prescott owns 95% of the equity.”
Donovan felt his knees go weak. He thought he had been a genius using me as a free maid. It turned out every single transaction was being recorded under a microscope.
“What about the kids?!” Donovan grabbed at his last straw. “I am the biological father! If I don’t agree, she can’t just run back to her billionaire mansion with my kids!”
Just as he finished, the heavy conference room door clicked open. Two black-suited bodyguards walked in, followed by Benson pushing a medical transport wheelchair. I sat in the chair, wearing my baggy hospital gown, a thick blanket draped over my lap. My spine was perfectly straight.
“L!” Donovan lunged forward, stopped by a bodyguard’s arm. “Tell them! Tell them we’re not divorcing! The babies can’t be born without a father!”
I sat in the chair, staring at him quietly. I raised a hand and tapped a single finger against the armrest.
Harrison Cole immediately understood. He pulled out a receipt stamped with the official seal of the NYPD. “Item one: the unauthorized sale of the Patek Philippe watch. While she was out of town, you stole it and sold it to a gray-market dealer.”
“I took my wife’s watch to get some cash flow! How is that stealing?” Donovan yelled.
“The police report was filed last October,” I said flatly.
Donovan stiffened. “What?”
“When I noticed the watch was missing, I filed a police report for grand larceny,” I explained, watching the blood drain from his face. “The detectives tracked it to the dealer. They pulled the security footage. It was you. I told the detectives a relative took it by mistake and put it on a civil hold. Now, all I have to do is refile the criminal complaint for unjust enrichment and grand larceny. That police record is concrete proof you committed a Class B felony.”
Donovan’s vision went black at the edges. I had known for a year. I had cooked his dinner, kissed his cheek, and listened to him complain, knowing I held a federal indictment over his head.
“Item two: Destruction of the Ming vase,” Harrison continued. “Item three: Embezzlement of $50,000 from Apex Solutions. Vanguard Acquisitions has already filed formal charges with the DA. Item four: You wired $150,000 to Khloe Harper’s personal accounts. This constitutes illegal dissipation of marital assets.”
Harrison slid a heavy Montblanc pen across the table. “Sign the divorce agreement. Miss Prescott is willing to drop the grand larceny and destruction of property charges. You will only have to face the music for the $50k you stole from Apex and reimburse the money you blew on Miss Harper. This is your only way out.”
Donovan stared at the pen like it was a coiled viper. “No! I know the law! Even if I go to prison, I’m still your husband! I’m going to family court! I’ll drag your billionaire family through the mud in the tabloids!”
“Custody?” I tilted my head slightly.
Harrison Cole snapped his binder shut and pulled a thin manila envelope from his briefcase. He slid the first piece of paper across the desk. It was a photocopy of a birth certificate.
“Last August, Khloe Harper gave birth to a baby boy,” Harrison pointed at the signature block. “Under ‘Father,’ that is your signature. And in the hospital’s intake system, you checked the box listing your relationship to her as Spouse.”
Harrison slid a second paper forward. “A residential HOA registration form for a luxury apartment complex. To secure free garage parking for Miss Harper, you filled out this form, explicitly checking the box that you and Miss Harper were married. For the last twelve months, the building’s concierge and neighbors have provided sworn statements that you cohabitated as husband and wife.”
The air in the conference room turned to lead.
“That was just to get the parking spot!” Donovan’s voice cracked into a high-pitched squeak.
I finally leaned forward, looking dead into his eyes. “New York Penal Law Section 255.15. A person is guilty of bigamy when he contracts or purports to contract a marriage with another person at a time when he has a living spouse.”
I enunciated every single word. “Class E felony. You didn’t just cheat on me, Donovan. You committed criminal bigamy. With this evidence, a judge will grant an immediate at-fault divorce. As a convicted felon who committed extreme marital misconduct, you will be permanently stripped of all custody and visitation rights.”
I let the silence stretch, watching his face crumble into absolute despair. “Now tell me, do you really think you have the leverage to negotiate custody with me?”
Donovan collapsed back into his chair. His brain had completely flatlined. He thought he was the mastermind, hiding behind divorce law. He never realized that from the exact second he signed Khloe’s maternity paperwork, I had slipped a noose around his neck. I was just waiting to drag him up to the top of the scaffold, only to kick the trapdoor out from under him.
“Fine. Let me make it simple,” I said. “Sign the papers right now. You take the $50,000 debt to Apex. I’ll let the money you blew on Khloe go. I won’t refile the grand larceny charges. But from this second forward, you and your mother will never step foot anywhere near me or my children ever again. If I ever catch you within a mile of my life, I will pull every single charge on this table and bury you in a maximum-security cell for the rest of your natural life. Understand?”
Donovan violently trembled. He reached out with a shaking hand and picked up the pen.
“Don’t sign it, Donnie!” Brenda thrashed against the bodyguards at the door. “If you sign it, we lose the apartment!”
“Shut the hell up!” Donovan whipped around, unleashing a guttural, agonizing roar at his mother. That roar was filled with absolute self-hatred and the crushing, suicidal regret of letting a five-billion-dollar empire slip through his fingers.
He turned back. Tears and snot mixed with the cold sweat on his face. He pressed the nib of the pen down onto the final page. His hand was shaking so badly he tore the paper. He signed his name. When he finished, he slumped forward over the table and let out a muffled wail of pure devastation.
Harrison Cole smoothly secured the contract in his briefcase. I didn’t look at Donovan again. “Let’s go,” I ordered quietly.
As Benson wheeled me to the door, I paused. “That apartment,” my voice echoed in the hallway. “Have it completely emptied by 3:00 PM tomorrow. I don’t like the smell of other people in my properties. My dogs won’t like it either.”
The wheelchair rolled away. The only things left in the conference room were Brenda’s despairing shrieks and the dead, hollow sound of Donovan sobbing into the mahogany wood.
