Chapter 6 - The Ultimatum at the Kitchen TableThe night before the final divorce hearing, Adrian showed up at my apartment.
Not the townhouse we used to share—that was already seized by the bank. He stood outside my door in a wrinkled suit that looked like he’d been sleeping in it for three days, his hair uncomomed, his eyes bloodshot and hollow.
When I opened the door, he didn't wait for an invitation; he dropped straight to his knees on the welcome mat.
“Adrian, what are you doing?” I asked, looking down at him without a shred of pity, only a quiet, clinical curiosity.
“Begging,” he choked out, tears finally spilling over his eyelids and tracking down his stubbled cheeks. “I’m begging you, Camille. Take everything. Take the house, take the car, take my last remaining shares in the firm. Just give me the clearance letter from Northstar. If I don't get that letter by tomorrow morning, I’m facing federal fraud charges. I’ll go to prison.”
I looked down at the man who had once treated my brilliance like a household chore, the man who had watched another woman steal my life’s work without blinking an eye.
“You want a clearance letter?” I asked softly.
He nodded frantically, pressing his forehead against my doorstep. “Yes. Please.”
I stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come inside.”
He scrambled to his feet, stumbling into the entryway like a beaten dog. I motioned toward the kitchen island—the exact replica of the setup in our old house where he had handed me the divorce papers and the insulting four-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement.
On the counter sat a single sheet of paper.
“Read it,” I said.
Adrian picked up the paper with trembling hands. His eyes scanned the text, and as he read, the last remaining color drained entirely from his face.
It wasn't a clearance letter.
It was a total assignment deed transferring 100% of Vance & Associates' remaining intellectual property, real estate holdings, and subsidiary assets directly to Camille Rowan Holdings LLC, making him a salaried employee with zero voting rights in his own company.
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“This... this is complete subjugation,” he whispered, looking up at me in horror. “You’re taking total control of my entire life's work.”
“No, Adrian,” I replied, walking over and leaning against the counter, looking down at him with absolute serenity. “I’m giving you exactly what you gave me at that board reception: complete, absolute erasure. You can sign it and keep your freedom, or you can walk out that door and let federal prison be your new boardroom. You have sixty seconds.”
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