“Sadie,” I said softly, “take your sister into my room and close the door.”
She obeyed.
Only after I heard the latch click did I turn back to Warren.
“You’re done.”
He scoffed. “You don’t decide that.”
The doorbell rang.
Warren looked toward it, confused.
I opened the door.
Rowan Vale stood outside with a deputy sheriff and a woman from his office carrying a tablet.
Warren’s expression shifted from rage to alarm.
“What is this?”
Rowan stepped inside. “Service of notice.”
“For what?”
“Separation filing. Temporary financial injunction. Notice of forensic accounting. Demand for preservation of records. Civil claim regarding forged signatures. And a petition concerning custody.”
Warren stared at him.
Then he turned to me. “You planned this.”
“No,” I said. “I prepared for it.”
The deputy remained by the door, quiet and watchful.
Rowan handed Warren the packet.
Warren didn’t take it at first.
So Rowan placed it on the table.
“You should also know,” Rowan continued, “that your business accounts are under review by two lenders who received corrected ownership information regarding Aster Hall. Any attempt to move marital funds tonight will be documented.”
Warren’s mouth opened, then closed.
His confidence had always required an audience willing to believe him.
This room offered none.
He looked at me then, really looked at me, as if searching for the woman who used to smooth things over before his lies became inconvenient.
“You’re my wife,” he said.
