Chapter 3

I sat in my father's study, surrounded by the remnants of his life—his military medals displayed in glass cases, photographs of him in uniform, his leather-bound books still carrying his scent. The shattered pieces of the Tiffany brooch lay before me on his mahogany desk, each fragment a glittering wound to my heart.

My fingers trembled as I reached for my phone. I needed someone who understood—someone who wouldn't just offer empty platitudes.

"Emma? It's me," I whispered when she answered. "I need you."

"I'm already on my way," she replied without hesitation, her voice steady and sure. Emma had been my assistant for five years, but she'd become much more—a confidante, a friend, one of the few people who truly understood the Armstrong legacy.

When she arrived, her eyes widened at the sight of me—still in the same clothes from last night, hair disheveled, eyes swollen from crying.

"Oh, Finley," she murmured, setting down her bag and crossing to me. She didn't ask questions, just gently took the broken pieces of the brooch from my hands.

"This was more than jewelry," I said, my voice cracking. "This was my father. Our family. Everything we stood for."

"I know," Emma said, carefully photographing each fragment with her phone. "And we're going to document everything—every piece, every crack, every disrespect."

I watched as she methodically worked, her efficiency a balm to my shattered nerves. "What are you doing?"

"Building a case," she said simply. "I've already made some calls. Discreet ones."

"You've contacted divorce attorneys?" I asked, surprised by how little surprise I felt.

Emma's eyes met mine. "Three of them. The best in Manhattan. And I've started compiling a list of Stephen's professional vulnerabilities."

I should have been shocked by her initiative, but instead, I felt a strange calm settle over me. For the first time in months, someone was truly on my side.

"Thank you," I whispered.

---

The doorbell rang three hours later. Emma peered through the security monitor, then turned to me with a knowing look.

"It's Apollo," she said. "He says it's about a security contract for the Armstrong estate."

I nodded, understanding the subtext. Emma had called him.

Apollo Hansen stood in my foyer, tall and steady as always. His military bearing was evident even in casual clothes—shoulders back, posture perfect. His eyes, warm amber in his tanned face, searched mine with concern.

"Finley," he said simply, then followed Emma's gesture toward my father's study.

I'd known Apollo since we were children training together at military summer camps. While others saw only my family name, Apollo had always seen me—my capabilities, my strength, my weaknesses.

"I heard what happened," he said once we were alone, his voice low. "Emma filled me in."

"You mean about the brooch?" I asked, gesturing to the fragments on the desk.

"I mean about everything," he replied. "The disrespect. The undermining. The destruction of something precious to you."

He picked up a small silver fragment, examining it with his calloused fingers. "This isn't just about a piece of jewelry, is it?"

"It's about what it represents," I said. "My father. Our legacy."

Apollo nodded slowly. "The Armstrongs have always been fighters, Finley. Your father was. You are too."

For the first time in days, I felt a spark of my old self—the woman who had grown up surrounded by military strategists, who had negotiated business deals with the same precision as battle plans.

"I remember when we were twelve," Apollo said with a small smile, "and you took down three boys twice your size during combat training."

I almost smiled at the memory. "They underestimated me."

"Just like Stephen is underestimating you now," Apollo said, his expression turning serious. "But I never have."

---

Rebecca Chen's office overlooked Central Park, the greenery a stark contrast to the sleek modern furnishings. As a junior at Harvard, she'd been quiet and studious; now she commanded her space with the confidence of a woman who had fought her way to the top.

"So," she said, reviewing the notes Emma had prepared, "you want to divorce Stephen Morrison."

"Yes," I replied, my voice stronger than it had been in weeks.

Rebecca's dark eyes studied me carefully. "He's going to fight this, Finley. Men like Stephen don't like losing—especially to women they've underestimated."

"I'm counting on it," I said.

She smiled then, a sharp predatory curve of her lips. "Good. Because we're going to make him regret it."

She spread out documents across her desk—financial statements, property deeds, photographs of the broken brooch.

"We're going to use everything," she said. "Your family connections. Your business acumen. The political capital you've built over the years."

"And his vulnerabilities?" I asked.

"His ambition," Rebecca replied. "His insecurity about his background. His dependence on your social connections for his career advancement."

As she outlined our strategy, I felt something shift inside me—a cold determination replacing the hurt and betrayal. Stephen had made a mistake when he chose his mother over me.

And he was about to learn just how costly that mistake would be.