CHAPTER 2: THE SNARE TIGHTENS
By noon the following day, the ripples of Brandon’s arrest had turned into a tidal wave.
I took the day off work to meet with my divorce attorney, Victoria Vance—a lethal, razor-sharp family law veteran who specialized in high-asset divorces and domestic abuse cases. We sat in her high-rise office downtown, surrounded by glass and steel, as she carefully reviewed my documentation.
“This audio file is phenomenal evidence, Chloe,” Victoria said, adjusting her glasses as she scanned the transcript. “In this state, one-party consent laws apply for recordings where there is no reasonable expectation of privacy during an ongoing commission of a felony. He threatened you, demanded compliance under duress, and committed aggravated battery. The criminal prosecution is going to be swift.”
“I don’t just want him in jail, Victoria,” I said, my voice unflinching. “I want him completely stripped of every asset he tried to steal from me. I want his sister held accountable for her complicity, and I want his family to realize that their golden gravy train has officially derailed.”
Victoria smiled—a terrifying, predatory grin. “Oh, my dear. We aren’t just going to file for divorce. We are going to file a civil lawsuit for intentional infliction of emotional distress, assault, battery, and financial fraud. But before we serve him, let’s talk about his company.”
Brandon worked as a Senior Regional Vice President of Sales at Vanguard Logistics, a prestigious firm that prided itself on corporate ethics and public relations. What Brandon hadn’t realized was that Vanguard’s Chief Financial Officer, Eleanor Vance, happened to be Victoria’s sister-in-law. But more importantly, Vanguard had a strict morality clause embedded in every executive contract: any employee indicted on felony charges or involved in acts of domestic violence was subject to immediate termination without severance.
“The police prosecutor filed formal felony charges two hours ago,” Victoria noted, sliding a document across the table. “Aggravated Domestic Battery with a Deadly Weapon. Bail has been set at $50,000. He hasn’t posted it yet because he can’t access your savings account.”
I smiled. Brandon’s personal savings stood at a pitiful $4,200. He had spent years relying on my income to cover his lavish lifestyle—custom suits, expensive watches, and weekend golf trips—while keeping his own money for his personal discretionary spending and handouts to his family.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the table. It was an unknown local number. I pressed speaker.
“Chloe?”
It was Tiffany. Her voice lacked its usual mocking, Instagram-influencer cadence. She sounded frantic, hyperventilating.
“Chloe, please! You have to help us!” she sobbed. “Brandon is in jail! Mom is panicking, and my landlord just called me! My payment bounced! The transaction was canceled! I tried to pay my car lease too, and the card was declined! What did you do?!”
“I canceled my cards, Tiffany,” I replied smoothly.
“You can’t do that!” she shrieked, her entitlement instantly flaring back up. “I have bills to pay! I have a life! You promised Brandon you would take care of us!”
“I never promised anyone anything,” I corrected her. “You are twenty-four years old, Tiffany. You haven’t held a job in three years because you convinced your brother that you were ‘building your personal brand’ while I paid for your apartment, your clothes, your food, and your vacations. That ends today.”
“You monstrous bitch!” Tiffany screamed. “Brandon is in a metal cell because of you! He was just trying to protect his sister! He loves me!”
“Then let him pay your rent from his jail cell,” I said coldly. “Oh, wait. He can’t. Because he doesn’t have any money. He spent it all pretending to be a big man on my salary.”
“I’m going to sue you!” she shrieked. “I’m going to tell everyone what you did! I’ll put it on TikTok, on Instagram! I’ll ruin your reputation!”
“Please do,” I replied, taking a sip of water. “Because every post you make harassing me will be added to the temporary restraining order my attorney is currently filing against you. And if you set foot within 500 feet of my house, my office, or my person, you will join your brother in a orange jumpsuit.”
“Chloe—”
“Goodbye, Tiffany. Get a job.”
I disconnected the call. Victoria raised her coffee mug in a silent toast.
“Phase one complete,” Victoria remarked. “Now, let’s talk about his employer.”
At 3:00 PM, Victoria officially served Vanguard Logistics’ legal department with a formal subpoena for Brandon’s corporate records, along with an official notification of his felony indictment. By 4:15 PM, Brandon’s profile was completely removed from the corporate leadership page of Vanguard’s website.
He was fired. No severance. No stock options. No recommendation letter.
By the time Evelyn managed to mortgage her own home to scrape together the $5,000 bond to post Brandon’s bail late that evening, he walked out of the county jail as an unemployed felon, stripped of his corporate status, his credit lines frozen, and his reputation in tatters.
And he had nowhere to go except back to his mother’s cramped, two-bedroom suburban house, where Tiffany was already crying on the couch about her impending eviction.
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