Chapter 3

It was 11 PM. I dragged my suitcase up to Olivia's place and dinged her bell.

The door flew open. Olivia stood there in a silk robe, her hair a wild mess of curls. Her eyes went from my suitcase to the raw, red gash the ashtray left on my cheek. The sleep in them just vanished.

"Oh, fuck no," she said, her voice a low growl. She grabbed my arm and yanked me inside, then stuck her head back into the empty hall and yelled, "You're a dead man, Michael. You piece of shit!"

She slammed the door and shoved me down onto the sofa. "Don't move." She returned a second later with a first-aid kit, dabbing at my cheek with something that stung.

"Talk to me, Ivy," she said, her voice tight with a rage she was barely holding back. "What did that bastard do?"

I told her the whole insane story: the demand for 200,000 dollars, the ashtray missile, and the three-ring circus the Clark family pulled afterward. I told her everything, straight up.

I was dead calm as I spoke, but Olivia was fuming. Her whole body was shaking with how mad she was.

She slammed her palm on the coffee table so hard the mugs jumped.

"They are actual human garbage," Olivia hissed. "Domestic battery, trying to rob you blind... It's the classic toxic mama's boy with the leech family. Ivy, what the hell are you thinking? You are done. You're divorcing him. It's over."

I looked at her, at all this fury she was feeling on my behalf, and I felt the ice in my chest crack. I gave her a bitter smile. "I know, Olivia. But I'm not just leaving. I'm not letting them get away with this."

"You're right," Olivia agreed, and it was like a switch flipped. Her lawyer brain took over. Her eyes turned razor-sharp. "No way we let them get away with this. We'll play this smart, one move at a time."

She ticked off points on her fingers. "First, the assault evidence is solid. You called 911, and that's the game changer. The police report is proof beyond a doubt. Did you get pictures of the mess? The wall? Your face?"

I nodded. "Every single angle."

"Atta girl," she said, giving me a nod of approval. "Second, the recording you took of his insane family. Sophie saying your pre-marital assets are Michael's? That's not just stupid. It's a conspiracy to commit fraud. A judge is going to eat them alive."

She paused to take a sip of water, her brow furrowed.

"But... Ivy," she said. "There's one thing that doesn't add up.

"Luke needs 200,000 dollars for his surgery? It smells fishy. I'm a divorce lawyer. I know how people lie about money.

"When a deadbeat spouse suddenly needs a 'life-saving' pile of cash, it is always bullshit. It's a scam. It's a last-ditch, panicked grab for your pre-marital assets before you wise up and leave."

Olivia's comment slapped the confusion right out of my head.

She was so right. Michael asked for a clean 200,000 dollars. That number was too big, too perfect.

Michael was a junior paper-pusher. His family was strictly working-class. 200,000 dollars wasn't a medical bill to them. It was a lottery jackpot. Why were they so dead certain I'd sell my million-dollar house to fix their problem?

"Did they show you any proof?" Olivia asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "A bill? A diagnosis? Anything?"

I fumbled for my phone and pulled up the picture Michael sent me that afternoon.

It was a crappy, blurry photo of a "Critical Illness Notice." The text was so pixelated that it was barely readable. It looked like he'd snapped it in a hurry.

Back then, I was too shocked and pissed off to look closely.

Olivia took the phone from my hand. She zoomed in, her eyes narrowed, scanning the screen.

After about three seconds, she let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh.

"Wow," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "This is the laziest forgery I have ever seen in my professional career."

She shoved the phone back at me.

"Look at the logo," she commanded, jabbing her finger at the screen.

I leaned in.

"The font's completely wrong," she explained. "It's a bad cut-and-paste. See how pixelated the edges are? And this doctor's signature? It's not even straight. It's bleeding color. They photoshopped this, Ivy. And they did a piss-poor job."

The floor seemed to drop out from under me.

A different kind of chill, colder and sharper than fear, shot up my spine.

The Clarks weren't just greedy abusers. They were full-on criminals. They had forged medical documents and were trying to use Luke as a pawn to scam me.

This wasn't a fight over money. This was felony fraud.

"Don't let them suspect anything," Olivia warned, her hand pressing hard on my shaking arm. Her eyes were absolutely terrifying. "Tomorrow, we hit Beloria Hospital. I have connections there. We're going to find out what's really going on with Luke."

I looked out at the pitch-dark street. The ice in my veins and the fire in my gut twisted together. For the first time all night, my mind was crystal clear.

This wasn't just a fight I had to get through.

This was a war. And I was going to win.