Chapter 10 - THE DIVORCE WAR
Victor filed for divorce from his hospital bed.
The petition described me as deceptive, controlling, and emotionally abusive.
He requested temporary spousal support.
He claimed he had structured his career and lifestyle around a marriage I entered under fraudulent circumstances.
He requested half the increase in value of my personal assets during our seven-year marriage.
According to his filing, that increase exceeded three billion dollars.
The number became a national headline.
ASSAULT-ACCUSED HUSBAND SEEKS BILLIONS FROM SECRET HEIRESS.
People debated whether Victor deserved anything.
Some said no man who struck his wife should profit from marriage.
Others argued that my deception invalidated moral sympathy.
Television lawyers explained that hidden wealth did not automatically erase marital rights.
Social media selected teams.
Team Olivia.
Team Victor.
Few people chose Team Truth because truth required too much reading.
At the emergency hearing, Adrian Pike’s junior partner represented Victor.
My attorney, Naomi Grant, presented the assault video.
The courtroom became silent when Victor’s hand struck my face.
Kendra’s laugh sounded clearly from the bedroom.
Victor lowered his eyes.
For the first time, the public saw what happened before I called my father.
The judge issued a protective order.
Victor was forbidden from contacting me directly.
He was also ordered to surrender his passport.
However, the judge refused to dismiss his financial claims.
“My ruling is not a moral judgment,” she said.
“The court must examine whether either party engaged in material financial deception affecting the marriage.”
Victor’s attorneys requested access to Hartwell trust records.
Naomi objected.
The judge allowed limited discovery.
Martin had achieved another objective.
Through Victor’s divorce, he could force private Hartwell documents into court.
After the hearing, Eleanor approached me outside.
Reporters shouted questions from behind the barricade.
She wore no pearls.
For the first time since I had known her, she appeared tired rather than superior.
“I need to speak with you,” she said.
“Through attorneys.”
“Martin has Victor’s original marriage file.”
“What file?”
“The background investigation.”
I stared at her.
“Victor investigated me before the wedding?”
“Of course.”
“He told me he didn’t care about my past.”
“He cared whether you had debts, criminal history, or relatives who might become inconvenient.”
The words hurt despite everything I knew.
Victor had valued my lack of family not as romantic simplicity but as strategic isolation.
“What did the report find?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Because I used my mother’s name.”
“Yes.”
“But there was one photograph.”
Eleanor handed me a copy.
It showed me leaving a Hartwell hotel seven months before the wedding.
Russell walked beside me.
Victor had seen the photograph.
“He asked who Russell was,” Eleanor said.
“What did you tell him?”
“That rich men sometimes helped girls like you.”
My stomach turned.
“You told him Russell was my lover?”
“I suggested it.”
“Why?”
“Because Victor was about to cancel the wedding.”
I looked at her.
“You wanted him to marry me before you knew who I was.”
“I wanted him married to someone he could control.”
The honesty was almost impressive.
Almost.
“Why show me this now?”
“Martin has the original investigator.”
“Who?”
“A former Chicago detective named Samuel Reed.”
“Where is he?”
“Missing.”
Martin had begun collecting every person connected to the beginning of our marriage.
He intended to prove Victor suspected my deception.
If Victor knew I had wealthy connections and married me anyway, his claim of complete ignorance weakened.
But if Martin silenced the investigator, he could shape the story however he wanted.
“Why do you care?” I asked Eleanor.
“Victor thinks Martin will save him.”
“He won’t.”
“I know.”
She looked toward her son across the courthouse steps.
Victor stood with his attorneys.
He did not look at her.
“He is still my child,” she said.
“He is a grown man who hit his wife and stole from workers.”
“Both can be true.”
I hated that she was right.
Parents did not stop seeing children simply because the world saw criminals.
“You helped make him,” I said.
“Yes.”
Her answer surprised me.
“I taught him that being humiliated was worse than being cruel.”
She looked at the pavement.
“His father’s death humiliated me.”
“Poverty humiliated me.”
“Your family humiliated me.”
“So I taught Victor never to feel small.”
She raised her eyes.
“I forgot to teach him not to make other people smaller.”
A black sedan stopped at the curb.
Eleanor looked toward it and went pale.
Martin stepped out.
He had returned to Chicago publicly.
Reporters rushed toward him.
He smiled, shook hands, and announced that Hartwell Group had stabilized under his leadership.
Then he saw us.
“Olivia,” he said warmly.
“Eleanor.”
Victor crossed the steps.
Martin embraced him in front of the cameras.
The photograph would make them appear united.
Eleanor whispered, “He is going to sacrifice Victor.”
“How?”
“Martin needs someone to confess to your mother’s death.”
Before I could respond, federal agents approached Martin.
For one hopeful second, I thought they would arrest him.
Instead, they served him with a request for voluntary questioning.
Martin accepted the document and smiled.
Then he turned toward me.
“You should visit the old accident memorial,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because your father forgot to include one of the dead.”
He walked away.
The Milwaukee crane accident officially killed three men.
At the memorial, only three names appeared.
The original emergency report listed a fourth person transported from the site.
May you like
A young female Hartwell accountant named Amelia Lane.
My mother.
