My Husband Ordered Me to Apologize to His Mistress at Dinner, So I Called the Lawyer Who Knew What He Had Signed Away

Three days later, the summons arrived.

I was reviewing the revised quarterly projections with Everett in my office when my executive assistant slipped an official-looking Manila envelope onto my desk.

“Served by a courier five minutes ago downstairs,” my assistant said nervously.

Everett picked up the envelope, slit open the top with a silver letter opener, and pulled out a stack of heavy legal documents. He scanned the first page, his brow furrowing deeper with every line.

“Well,” Everett muttered, a dry, incredulous smile touching his lips. “Your ex-husband has finally found a lawyer desperate enough to take his case.”

“Who is it?” I asked, leaning forward.

“Marcus Vance,” Everett said, looking up.

I paused. “Arthur Vance’s estranged nephew? The ambulance-chasing litigator who was disbarred in New York for tampering with corporate trust funds?”

“The very same,” Everett replied, flipping through the pages. “He’s filing an emergency injunction in federal court. He’s claiming that the 2019 restructuring agreement signed between Monroe Financial and Whitmore Strategic Group constitutes corporate extortion, undue influence, and spousal coercion.”

I let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Spousal coercion? Callum begged me on his knees to inject that money. We have audio recordings, notarized affidavits, and bank wire transfers showing every penny came from my personal pre-marital account.”

“It doesn’t matter if the claim has merit, Zariah,” Everett warned, his expression turning serious. “Marcus Vance is a bulldog. He’s going to drag this through the tabloids, leak salacious details about your marriage to the financial press, and try to freeze your corporate accounts pending trial. He wants to bleed you dry in legal fees and force you into a messy settlement.”

I stared out the window, watching the ant-like stream of traffic crawling along Michigan Avenue. Callum was playing his last, pathetic card. He would rather burn the entire company to ash than watch me run it without him.

“When is the emergency hearing?” I asked quietly.

“Friday morning. Ten days from now.”

“Good,” I said, turning back to face Everett. “Let him file. Let him leak whatever he wants to the tabloids. While Marcus Vance is busy trying to dig up dirt on my marriage, we’re going to dismantle Callum’s personal asset portfolio piece by piece.”

Everett’s eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. “You want to go offensive?”

“Callum has three luxury real estate properties registered under his personal name in downtown Chicago, a collection of vintage automobiles, and offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands that he foolishly linked to his corporate credit card during our marriage,” I said smoothly. “File emergency freezing orders on all of them. If he wants to play dirty in federal court, we’ll make sure he doesn't even have enough money to pay his lawyer’s retainer by Friday.”

By Thursday afternoon, the financial press had caught wind of the brewing legal war. Headlines blared across online news portals: *“BITTER DIVORCE TURNS NUCLEAR: EX-WIFE SEIZES CONTROL OF WHITMORE EMPIRE!”* and *“CORPORATE COUP OR EXTORTION? THE WAR OF THE WHITMORES.”*

Social media was in a frenzy. Commenters tore into Callum for his arrogance, while others speculated wildly about my hidden wealth. Vivienne Ashford even posted a pathetic, public Instagram story playing the victim, claiming she was “collateral damage in a psychopath’s revenge plot.” I didn’t even bother to watch it.

The real battle wasn't fought on Instagram. It was fought in bank vaults, registrar offices, and federal courtrooms.

On Thursday evening, just twelve hours before the emergency injunction hearing, my phone rang. It was an unknown number, blocked from caller ID.

I swiped to answer.

“Zariah,” a breathless, cracked voice whispered on the other end.

It was Callum.

He sounded hollow, shattered, like a man who hadn’t slept in a week. Gone was the booming, arrogant CEO who had ordered me to apologize at Alden House.

“Callum,” I said coldly. “If you’re calling to negotiate, talk to Everett. My lawyers don't speak to trespassers.”

“Please... Zariah... stop this,” Callum sobbed openly, the sound grating and pathetic. “Marcus... Marcus told me if we win the injunction, you’ll be ruined. But he’s lying. He’s bleeding me dry. He took my last fifty thousand dollars as a retainer, and now he’s threatening to drop my case unless I hand over the title to my vacation home in Aspen.”

I let out a slow, steady breath. “You hired a shark, Callum. What did you expect? You thought he was going to save you, but he was just scavenging the last scraps of meat off your rotting carcass.”

“Help me,” Callum whispered, his voice breaking entirely. “Please, Zariah. Drop the asset freezes. Give me back my personal accounts. I’ll sign whatever you want. I’ll leave the country. Just... don't destroy me.”

“You destroyed yourself the moment you thought you could use me, step on me, and throw me away,” I said softly. “See you in court tomorrow, Callum.”

I hung up, blocked the number, and set the phone face down on my desk.