Chapter 3: The Scramble for Survival
By noon, the fallout from the previous night had metastasized into a full-blown financial and legal hurricane for Ethan.
From my office window, I watched the city move below, while on my desktop monitor, updates kept rolling in. Victoria Sterling, the top matrimonial attorney in the Pacific Northwest, had spent the morning working with ruthless efficiency.
Because Washington is a community property state, standard divorces often involve months of tedious asset division. However, Victoria had drafted an emergency filing based on extreme spousal abuse, public defamation, and intentional infliction of emotional distress, accompanied by a temporary restraining order freezing our joint bank accounts pending judicial review.
At 1:15 p.m., my personal phone—which was now accepting calls only from whitelisted numbers—rang. It was my mother-in-law, Eleanor Carter.
I debated ignoring it, but decided against it. I picked up.
“Evelyn!” Eleanor’s voice burst through the speaker, high-pitched and hysterical. “What are you doing to my son?! Are you trying to kill him?!”
“Hello, Eleanor,” I replied smoothly, setting my pen down.
“He is locked inside his house, sobbing! The press is standing at the end of the driveway! His bank cards were declined at the grocery store an hour ago when he tried to buy food! How could you freeze his personal accounts?! How could you destroy his reputation over a stupid dinner argument?!”
“A stupid dinner argument?” I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. “Your son publicly assaulted me in a crowded restaurant, called me a whore, and threw a cake in my face because he couldn’t handle the fact that I earned a higher executive title than him.”
“He was stressed!” Eleanor argued defensively. “Men have pride, Evelyn! You know how hard Ethan works! You should have been more subtle about your promotion! You waved it in his face! You humiliated him first by making him feel like less of a man!”
I took a breath, feeling no anger—only a profound pity for the twisted logic that had bred Ethan’s entitlement.
“Eleanor, listen to me very carefully,” I said, my voice quiet and absolute. “Your son is thirty-four years old. He is responsible for every single choice he made last night. I didn’t call the press. I didn’t post the video. I didn’t ruin his career—his own fragile ego did that. And if you call me again to defend his violence, my legal team will include you in the civil harassment injunction.”
“You wicked, cold-hearted bitch—”
I hung up the phone and blocked her number without a second thought.
Ten minutes later, Sarah knocked gently on my door. “Evelyn, your process server just confirmed delivery. Ethan was officially served with the divorce papers and the emergency temporary restraining order at 1:45 p.m. at your residence.”
“Thank you, Sarah. Has Vance & Associates made their announcement?”
“Just now,” Sarah said, tapping her tablet and projecting the news release onto the large smart-screen on my office wall.
The headline read: VANCE & ASSOCIATES TERMINATES SENIOR PARTNER ETHAN CARTER EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY FOR MORAL TURPITUDE; ANNOUNCES $2M DONATION TO WOMEN’S CHARITY.
Below the headline was a video statement from Marcus Vance, formally announcing the promotion of Eleanor Vance to Lead Managing Partner on all enterprise accounts, alongside an explicit apology to Executive Vice President Evelyn Reed and Blackwood Enterprises.
I looked at the screen. In less than eighteen hours, Ethan had gone from a rising corporate star with a multi-million-dollar equity path to an unemployed, disgraced social outcast with frozen bank accounts and a pending civil lawsuit.
Suddenly, Sarah’s desk phone rang. She answered it, listened for a few seconds, and looked up at me with a strange expression.
“Evelyn… Ethan is downstairs in the building lobby. He’s trying to come up. Building security intercepted him at the turnstiles, but he’s causing a scene. He’s begging security to let him speak to you for five minutes.”
I stood up, adjusting my blazer.
“Tell security I’m coming down,” I said.
“Are you sure, Evelyn?” Sarah asked, concerned. “You have a restraining order.”
“I know,” I replied, walking toward the private executive elevator. “And I want the security cameras to record every second of what happens next.”
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