Chapter 10 - Meltdown on Oakridge Boulevard
“You can’t kick me out!” Tristan screamed, his voice reaching a shrill, hysterical pitch. “I’m her husband! My name is on this marriage certificate! I have rights!”
“You have the right to remain silent, Mr. Vance,” Brenda said smoothly, checking her manicure. “And I strongly advise you to exercise it before the state prosecutor reviews the forensic audit we submitted regarding Apex Strategy Partners.”
At the mention of Apex Strategy Partners, Tristan froze. The color drained from his face so rapidly that he looked like a corpse.
“What... what did you say?” he whispered.
I walked over to the dining table, opened my briefcase, and pulled out a stack of high-resolution color photographs. I tossed them onto the marble table one by one.
Slap. The photo of the locked mahogany armoire in Gertrude’s bedroom.
Slap. The photo of the $482,000 Delaware wealth management statement.
Slap. The photo of Tristan’s termination letter for thirty-five-thousand-dollar embezzlement.
Slap. The photo of the $7,800 diamond ring receipt for Chloe Miller.
Slap. The draft email detailing his plan to refinance my condo, steal the equity, and run away to the Maldives.
Tristan stared at the photos, his knees visibly trembling. He looked toward his mother, but Gertrude was staring at the floor, clutching her purse to her chest in terrified silence.
“You... you went through my mom’s armoire?” Tristan stammered, his arrogance completely evaporating into pathetic desperation. “You... you were supposed to be cleaning...”
“I did clean, Tristan,” I said softly, stepping closer until I was inches from his pale, sweating face. “I cleaned out your lies. I cleaned out your hidden accounts. And now, I am cleaning the parasites out of my home.”
“Abigail, wait... please,” Tristan pleaded, reaching out to grab my arm.
Before his fingers could touch my jacket, the larger security guard stepped between us, his massive frame blocking Tristan completely.
“Step back, sir,” the guard warned in a low, rumbling voice. “Do not touch the client.”
“Abigail, let’s talk about this privately!” Tristan cried, tears of sheer panic finally spilling over his eyelids. “It was just business! Chloe meant nothing to me! It was just a distraction because I felt insecure about you earning more than me! My mom pressured me into the Delaware account! She told me women always take everything in divorces!”
“Tristan!” Gertrude gasped from the sofa, betrayed. “How dare you blame your own mother?!”
“Shut up, Mom!” Tristan screamed, turning on her with savage fury. “This was your idea! You told me to hide the money! You told me to demand she clean your apartment to show her who was boss!”
“Both of you, silence,” Brenda Vance commanded, her voice ringing through the room with absolute authority. “You have ten minutes. Security will escort you to the bedroom to retrieve one suitcase of clothing each. Any attempt to remove electronics, art, or valuables belonging to the pre-marital estate will be treated as grand larceny.”
Tristan looked around the luxurious condominium—the marble floors, the panoramic city views, the life of effortless comfort he had taken for granted—and realized with crushing finality that he was being cast out into the street with nothing.
He fell to his knees on the hardwood floor, clasping his hands together in a pathetic display of begging.
“Abigail... please,” he sobbed. “I don’t have any money. My cards are declined. I don’t even have enough cash for a motel room tonight! Where am I supposed to go?!”
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I looked down at the man who, twenty-four hours earlier, had stood over me with a beer in his hand and threatened to destroy my life if I didn't scrub his mother's toilet.
“You told me yesterday that your mother’s apartment was completely uninhabitable, Tristan,” I said with a calm, freezing smile. “Good thing I cleaned it for you.”
