The next morning, Elena stepped out of an unmarked Uber in the underground parking garage of a midtown Manhattan high-rise. She pulled the collar of her beige trench coat up, hiding the lower half of her face.
She stepped into the private elevator and hit the button for the 45th floor.
The glass doors of Adler Law Firm slid open. The receptionist immediately recognized her and escorted her down a quiet, minimalist hallway into a private conference room overlooking Central Park.
Five minutes later, the door swung open.
Camilla Adler walked in. She wore a razor-sharp Armani suit and Christian Louboutin heels. She didn't smile. She didn't offer a handshake.
Camilla slid a cup of black coffee across the glass table toward Elena and sat down.
"Show me what you have," Camilla demanded.
Elena unclasped her bag. She pulled out her phone and swiped to the photos she took from the safe, sliding the device across the table. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap to hide their slight tremor.
Camilla scrolled through the images rapidly. Her sharp eyebrows drew together. She tossed the phone back onto the table with a loud clack.
"Garbage," Camilla said coldly. "These are shell companies. His core assets-the tech firm, the real estate-are shielded inside an offshore trust he set up before you signed the marriage license."
Elena's stomach plummeted. "But he founded three new subsidiaries during our marriage. Those are marital assets."
Camilla tapped her tablet, pulling up a background check. She spun the screen around.
"Look at the equity structure. They are all registered under proxy names. Legally, he owns nothing." Camilla leaned back, folding her arms. "If you file for divorce right now with these cards, you won't get a single dime. His legal team will bleed you dry in court until you can't afford to eat."
The color drained from Elena's face. Her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palms. The sheer, crushing weight of his wealth and power pressed down on her chest, suffocating her.
Camilla leaned forward, placing her hands flat on the glass. Her eyes were piercing.
"If you want to destroy him, you need a kill shot. I need hard, irrefutable proof of massive financial fraud, hidden asset transfers, or severe marital misconduct. And I need it documented."
Elena took a slow, shaky breath. She forced her heart rate to slow down.
"How do I get that?" Elena asked.
Camilla's lips curved into a cruel, calculating smile. "You go back to that house. You play the perfect, obedient, oblivious wife. You make him feel like a god. You make him drop his guard."
Bile rose in the back of Elena's throat. The thought of smiling at him, of letting him touch her after what he did yesterday, made her skin crawl.
But then she thought of her father's name on that medical report.
Elena's eyes hardened into chips of ice. She nodded once. "Done."
When Elena walked out of the building, the bright midday sun stung her eyes, but her mind had never been clearer.
She walked to a quiet corner on 5th Avenue and pulled out her phone. She scrolled past the contacts she had used for three years and found a number she hadn't dialed since the day she got married.
Julian Croft. The most ruthless, brilliant art dealer in the city. Her former mentor.
She pressed call.
"Well, well," Julian's booming voice echoed through the speaker. "Did the little housewife finally get bored of playing dress-up?"
"I'm ready to come back, Julian," Elena said, her voice steady.
Julian laughed, a rich, booming sound. "It's about time. You threw away your gift for a man. But the art world moves fast, darling. You've been playing house for three years. My roster is full, and I don't have time to hold your hand while you remember how to mix paint."
"I don't need you to hold my hand," Elena countered smoothly. "I saw the preview for your SoHo exhibition next month. You're anchoring it with that dreadful neo-expressionist piece by Vance. It's derivative, Julian. The gallery lighting is going to wash out the raw umber, and the critics will tear you apart for playing it safe."
Julian went completely silent on the other end of the line. She had hit a nerve.
"If you want to save that exhibition," Elena continued, her tone sharp and uncompromising, "you need a centerpiece that actually bleeds. You need 'Rose'. I need my own studio space in the back. I need a canvas. And I need an advance."
Julian let out a slow, appreciative exhale. "The art world doesn't run on charity, Elena. You want back in? You have to prove 'Rose' isn't dead. Have a concept sketch on my desk by Monday."
"It's already in my head," Elena said.
She hung up the phone. She looked at her pale reflection in the glass window of Bergdorf Goodman. She reached up and smoothed her hair.
She walked through the heavy glass doors and went straight to the La Mer counter.
She picked out the most expensive serums and creams they had. When the total rang up to over three thousand dollars, she didn't flinch.
She pulled out Cooper's American Express Black Card and handed it to the cashier.
As the machine printed the long, absurdly expensive receipt, the corners of Elena's mouth twitched upward into a cold, dead smile.
She was going to use his money to build her armor. And then she was going to gut him.
Elena grabbed the shopping bags, walked out to the curb, and hailed a yellow cab.
"Take me to the Mitchell estate," she told the driver.
