Colton Farmer POV:
The echo of my mother’s shrill voice still bounced around my skull. I stared at the blank screen of my phone, my chest heaving. The urge to destroy something physical was a sickness in my blood, the only way I knew how to release the crushing pressure. I pulled my arm back and hurled the phone against the far wall. The glass shattered into a hundred pieces, raining down onto the floorboards.
***
Nora Kidd POV:
The morning sun over Brooklyn Heights felt different than the light in Manhattan. It felt warm.
I pushed open the heavy glass door of the independent coffee shop. The brass bell above jingled clearly. I closed my eyes for a second and inhaled deeply. The rich, bitter scent of roasted coffee beans and old paper filled my lungs. It smelled like oxygen.
I walked toward the back. Sitting in a corner leather booth, wearing a razor-sharp burgundy suit, was Amira.
She stood up instantly and closed the distance between us. She threw her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into a fierce hug, her body angled carefully to avoid crushing my pregnant belly.
"That blind, arrogant bastard," Amira whispered fiercely into my hair, her voice thick with protective rage.
I smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached my eyes. I patted her back firmly. "I feel better than I have in three years, Am."
We slid into the booth. I reached into my canvas tote bag and pulled out my laptop, the screen already fitted with a heavy privacy filter.
I opened it, bypassed the standard Wi-Fi, and connected to my encrypted mobile hotspot. My fingers flew across the keys, pulling up the state registry portal.
I spun the laptop around so Amira could see.
The screen displayed an officially approved corporate charter. *Kidd Legal Consulting. Legal Representative: Nora Kidd.*
Amira grinned, her eyes flashing. She snapped her fingers in the air. She reached down, unclasped her leather briefcase, and pulled out a stack of manila folders nearly three inches thick.
She slammed them down on the wooden table. *Thwack.*
The top page bore the highly classified watermark of her Wall Street litigation firm.
"I stayed up all night drafting the property division claims," Amira whispered, leaning over the table.
I opened the top folder. Neatly highlighted on the pages were Colton’s hidden commercial real estate assets and three offshore family trusts he thought were invisible.
Amira sneered, taking a sip of her black coffee. "Gerald, his bulldog lawyer, is going to slap that prenup on the table and tell us to go to hell."
I picked up my decaf Americano. The liquid was hot, grounding me. I felt absolutely zero fear.
I pulled the laptop back. I typed a 32-character command string into the terminal, bypassing two firewalls to access my hidden cloud drive.
I clicked open a master folder. Inside sat exactly forty-seven sub-folders.
"Look," I said softly.
Amira leaned in. Her eyes scanned the file names. They were the logs of every single fatal compliance loophole I had patched for Farmer Capital over the last thirty-six months.
Amira sucked in a sharp breath, her hands flying to her mouth.
"If Colton refuses to split the post-marital assets fifty-fifty," I said, my voice dead and flat, "I will submit every single un-patched original draft to the SEC."
I knew the Wall Street jungle. You don't ask predators for mercy; you hold a gun to their head.
Amira’s eyes lit up with a terrifying, predatory glee. She was looking at a nuclear launch code.
She immediately plugged an encrypted flash drive into my port and began syncing the data to her firm’s secure terminal.
I rested my hand on my stomach, feeling a soft flutter. "This isn't revenge, Amira. This is capital. It's for Iris's future."
Amira reached across the table and squeezed my hand hard. "We are going to bleed those leeches dry."
Above the barista counter, a flat-screen TV was muted, playing a financial news network.
The breaking news ticker scrolled at the bottom: *Farmer Capital CEO enters high-stakes divorce mediation tomorrow.*
The screen flashed to a file footage of Colton stepping out of a black SUV. His face was a mask of cold, untouchable arrogance. Two college girls at the table next to us let out dramatic sighs of admiration.
I stared at his face on the screen. I felt nothing. He looked like a stranger who was about to file for bankruptcy.
Amira shoved the last folder into her briefcase and pulled the zipper shut. The metal teeth locked together with a loud, final zip.
She stood up, smoothed down the lapels of her burgundy jacket, and flashed a smile that looked like a great white shark smelling blood in the water.
"Tomorrow, I will make the most arrogant man on Wall Street kneel and beg you."
