Chapter 4 - The Assembly of Evidence
By noon,
I was sitting in the plush office of Harold Harrison,
my father's oldest friend and the most ruthless divorce attorney in Dallas.
My parents sat on either side of me,
their faces grim,
their anger a palpable force in the quiet room.
I had bought a cheap pair of jeans and a t-shirt from a big-box store,
shedding the pajamas that felt like a relic from a past life.
Mr. Harrison adjusted his glasses,
staring at the thick stack of papers I had printed from the cloud drive.
"This is remarkable,"
he muttered,
flipping through the screenshots of emails and text messages.
"He documented his own fraud,
in writing,
on a device linked to an account you technically have access to."
"Can we use it?"
my father asked,
his voice trembling with suppressed rage.
"Absolutely,"
Mr. Harrison smiled,
a predatory grin that made me feel slightly better.
"This is not just infidelity,
this is financial manipulation,
and a clear intent to defraud you of your premarital assets."
I leaned forward,
my hands clasped tightly in my lap.
"I want the house,
Mr. Harrison,
I paid for it,
it is my money,
and I want him out."
"We will get the house,"
the lawyer assured me,
"but we are going to get much more than that,
Rachel."
He pulled out a blank legal pad,
his pen hovering over the paper.
"Jason's text to Amber about the 'papers being processed' suggests he filed something without your knowledge,
likely trying to shift the title of the property completely into his name."
My stomach dropped,
the reality of how close I had come to losing everything hitting me hard.
"We need to file a temporary restraining order regarding the finances,"
Mr. Harrison continued,
"freezing all joint accounts,
and stopping any transfer of property."
My phone buzzed again,
another text from Amber appearing on the screen.
"Rachel,
please call me,
I am so sorry,
it was a mistake,
we were just drunk and nostalgic."
I scoffed,
sliding the phone across the desk for the lawyer to see.
"Drunk and nostalgic,"
I repeated,
my voice dripping with sarcasm.
"They are sticking to the 'lost love' narrative."
"Let them believe they are winning,"
Mr. Harrison advised.
"Do not reply,
do not block them either,
let them keep sending us evidence of their guilt."
I nodded,
a cold sense of calm settling over me.
The girl who had cried in the motel room was gone,
replaced by a woman who was ready to go to war.
I looked at my mother,
who reached out and squeezed my hand,
her eyes shining with unshed tears of pride.
May you like
We were going to tear Jason Miller's perfect life apart,
brick by lying brick.
