Allie Patterson POV:
I parked my rusted, squeaking Honda directly in front of a towering glass skyscraper in the heart of the San Francisco Financial District. It sat wedged between a sleek black Porsche and a silver Tesla, looking like a piece of garbage washed up on a pristine beach. Years ago, I had job offers to work in gleaming towers exactly like this one. I turned them down to write code in a damp garage, all to build Grayson's dream.
I walked past the security desk, stepped into the express elevator, and hit the button for the top floor. When the doors slid open, I pushed through the heavy, frosted glass doors bearing the name: STERLING & PARTNERS.
The receptionist behind the marble desk took one look at my coffee-stained t-shirt and baggy jeans and immediately stood up, raising a hand to stop me. I didn't slow down. I looked right through her and stated my demand. "I need to see Jamie Stevens."
Two minutes later, rapid footsteps echoed down the hallway. Jamie appeared, wearing a perfectly tailored Armani suit, her sharp Louboutin heels clicking against the hardwood floor.
Jamie saw my pale, bloodless face. The professional, razor-sharp smile she wore for clients vanished instantly. She grabbed my arm, her grip tight, and pulled me down the hall and into her private, soundproof corner conference room.
She hit a button on the wall. The motorized blinds slid down, sealing us off from the rest of the firm. She walked straight to a crystal decanter, poured a heavy measure of amber whiskey into a glass, and shoved it into my hand. "What happened? You look like you just murdered someone."
I didn't take a sip. I set the glass down on the polished mahogany table. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the crumpled, water-stained grant deed, and slapped it flat onto the wood.
Then, I pulled out my phone. I opened the cloud backup, pulled up the photo of Kacey standing in the doorway—wearing the silk pajamas, the pink diamond, and Grayson's grandmother's silver ring—and slid the device across the table.
Jamie picked up the phone in one hand and the deed in the other. Her eyes darted between the two pieces of evidence. Her pupils shook. The muscles in her jaw jumped. She slammed the deed back onto the table with a loud smack.
"That son of a bitch!" Jamie hissed through gritted teeth. She lunged forward and grabbed the receiver of the landline sitting on the conference table. "I'm drafting the divorce papers and a total asset freeze order right now!"
I reached out. My hand clamped down over hers, pinning the phone to the base. I looked at her, my eyes terrifyingly cold, devoid of a single shred of mercy.
"No," I said, my voice hoarse but completely steady. "I don't want half. I want him to have nothing."
Jamie froze. She slowly released the phone and stared at me. She had known me for fifteen years, but right now, she was looking at a complete stranger.
She took a breath, sat down in her leather chair, and crossed her hands on the table, instantly shifting back into the ruthless, top-tier M&A lawyer she was. "State your demands."
I dragged my finger across the paper, tapping the purchase price. "Four million, two hundred thousand dollars. Paid in full. The company books show we are bleeding cash. Grayson says we have nothing. Where did he get this cash?"
Jamie narrowed her eyes, her legal mind spinning. "He's embezzling. Or he's laundering money through shell accounts before the IPO."
"I want the company back. That is my code. That is my blood and sweat." I enunciated every single word.
Jamie frowned. She pulled her MacBook closer, typed in her password, and pulled up our company's capitalization table.
"It's hard, Allie," Jamie said, pointing a manicured finger at the pie chart on the screen. "To avoid tax liabilities and to present a unified front to the venture capitalists, you signed over ninety percent of the voting rights to his name."
I closed my eyes. A violent shiver of disgust ripped through my spine as I remembered Grayson holding my hands, looking deeply into my eyes, feeding me sweet, manipulative lies about how it was just a formality to protect us.
"There has to be a way, Jamie," I said, opening my eyes and staring her down. "You are the most vicious lawyer in the Bay Area. Find it."
Jamie's fingers flew across the trackpad. She bypassed the standard files and dug deep into the firm's encrypted archives, hunting for the original incorporation articles we filed ten years ago.
The blue loading bar crept slowly across the screen. The soundproof room was dead quiet. The only noise was the sharp intake of our breathing.
The PDF opened. Hundreds of pages of dense, suffocating legal jargon began scrolling rapidly up the screen.
Jamie grabbed a pair of blue-light glasses from her desk, slid them onto her face, and scanned the text at a terrifying speed.
Suddenly, her finger stopped on the trackpad. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and leaned her face inches from the glowing monitor.
Her eyes locked onto a paragraph on page fourteen. A slow, highly dangerous smirk began to form on her lips.
She turned her head and looked at me. The predatory excitement gleaming in her eyes was blinding.
"Allie, do you remember ten years ago, eating pizza in that crappy garage drafting this, you insisted on adding a prank clause?"
