Chapter 2 - WHAT JACKSON DIDN’T KNOWI drove directly to St. Vincent’s Medical Center.
By the time I reached the emergency entrance, the bleeding had slowed, but dried blood had glued strands of my blonde hair against my face.
The receptionist looked at me once and immediately stood.
“Ma’am, are you safe?”
That question almost broke me.
Not what happened?
Not how badly does it hurt?
Are you safe?
I looked back through the glass doors.
“Yes.”
Then I realized I wasn’t certain.
“My husband threw a plate at me.”
Her expression changed.
“Would you like us to contact law enforcement?”
I hesitated for three seconds.
The Claire who had attended dinner that evening would have said no.
She would have worried about appearances.
She would have worried about embarrassing Jackson.
She would have worried about Genesis telling everyone that she had destroyed the family.
That Claire was gone.
“Yes,” I said.
The receptionist nodded.
“All right.”
A nurse photographed the wound before cleaning it. The cut required five stitches. I had a mild concussion and a headache that seemed to pulse with every heartbeat.
Two police officers arrived before midnight.
I told them exactly what happened.
No exaggeration.
No excuses.
Twenty witnesses.
A broken plate.
A wrist grabbed when I tried to leave.
One officer asked whether Jackson had struck me previously.
I stared at the blanket covering my knees.
“Not like this.”
That answer bothered me.
Because there had been other things.
A door slammed inches from my face.
A glass thrown against the wall.
A hand squeezed too tightly around my arm.
Arguments where he blocked the doorway.
A phone ripped from my hand.
Each incident had been individually explainable.
Together, they formed something much uglier.
The officer seemed to understand.
“Do you have somewhere else you can stay tonight?”
“Yes.”
My grandmother’s apartment was occupied by tenants.
But there was somewhere Jackson didn’t know about.
My company owned a furnished executive apartment downtown for employees coming from overseas. As chief financial officer, I had access.
At 12:43 a.m., I checked into the building carrying nothing but my purse and the clothes I wore to dinner.
Then I called Mercer again.
Ethan Mercer had been a forensic accountant before becoming a private financial investigator. Three years earlier, he had found enough irregularities in Jackson’s finances to make me nervous but not enough to prove wrongdoing.
Jackson operated an investment consulting company called Ellison Capital Advisory.
He claimed the business was profitable.
Yet money disappeared constantly.
Luxury car leases.
Private club fees.
Cash transfers.
Loans to family members.
I earned more than Jackson did, though his family preferred pretending otherwise.
When we married, I was a senior financial analyst at a healthcare technology firm.
Six years later, I was CFO.
My compensation included stock, bonuses, and equity grants Jackson knew about only generally.
He assumed he understood my financial position.
He didn’t.
My grandmother had taught me never to discuss every asset I owned.
Mercer called shortly after I reached the apartment.
“I pulled the old file,” he said. “There was one thing I forgot until I saw it.”
“What?”
“Your husband’s company received multiple transfers from something called G&E Holdings.”
“Genesis and Edward?”
“That would be my guess.”
Edward was Jackson’s father.
“How much?”
“Three years ago? Approximately $180,000.”
I sat down.
Jackson had told me his parents were nearly broke.
That was the reason they supposedly needed my apartment.
“Where did G&E Holdings get the money?”
“That was where the trail went cold.”
“Reopen it.”
“I already have.”
I closed my eyes.
“And Mercer?”
“Yes?”
“Look at our joint accounts too.”
“I’ll need authorization.”
“You’ll have it in five minutes.”
My phone began vibrating.
Jackson.
I ignored it.
Another call.
Then another.
Messages followed.
Where are you?
Mom is crying.
You’re blowing this out of proportion.
Then:
Dad says police called. What the hell did you do?
I stared at the screen.
What did I do?
My husband had thrown a ceramic dinner plate at my head in front of twenty people, and somehow I remained the offender.
I took screenshots of every message.
At 1:16 a.m., another arrived.
If you involve lawyers, don’t expect to come back to this marriage.
I smiled for the first time all night.
It surprised even me.
I typed four words.
That won’t be necessary.
Then I blocked him.
The following morning, I met attorney Rebecca Sloan in her Century City office.
She handled corporate litigation, high-asset divorce, and asset tracing.
More importantly, she had represented my company in a shareholder dispute two years earlier.
She was terrifyingly calm.
Rebecca examined the hospital photographs.
Then the police report.
Then my marriage documents.
“You own the Pasadena apartment separately?”
“Yes.”
“Trust documentation?”
“I have it.”
“Prenuptial agreement?”
“Yes.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“You have a prenup?”
“Jackson insisted on it.”
That made her smile.
“Did he?”
“He believed he would eventually inherit his father’s business interests.”
“And has he?”
“Not that I know.”
Rebecca leaned back.
“Claire, people occasionally discover too late that the document they demanded for their own protection protects the other spouse more.”
I remembered signing it.
Jackson’s attorney had emphasized separate property repeatedly.
Anything owned before marriage remained separate.
Inherited property remained separate.
Business interests created using separate funds remained separate unless intentionally commingled.
Jackson had been delighted.
At the time, I owned one apartment and modest investments.
He believed his future inheritance would be enormous.
But my career accelerated.
My grandmother died two years into my marriage.
And she left me much more than Jackson knew.
Rebecca studied me.
“How much does your husband think you’re worth?”
“Maybe two million.”
“And how much are you worth?”
I hesitated.
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Approximately eleven.”
Rebecca removed her glasses.
“Eleven million dollars?”
“Including vested equity, trusts, real estate, and investments.”
“And he doesn’t know?”
“He knows pieces.”
“Does he have access?”
“No.”
A smile slowly appeared on her face.
“Your grandmother was a very smart woman.”
Then my phone rang.
Ethan Mercer.
I answered.
“Tell me.”
His voice sounded different.
“Claire, I found something.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“What?”
Mercer continued.
“Your husband wasn’t trying to get that apartment for his mother because she needs somewhere to live.”
I felt cold.
“Then why?”
“Because the Ellison family is carrying more than four million dollars in debt.”
I said nothing.
“And your husband personally guaranteed a significant portion.”
“How significant?”
“At least $2.8 million.”
My stomach dropped.
Mercer wasn’t finished.
“There’s more.”
“Of course there is.”
“Last month, Jackson submitted financial statements to a lender.”
Rebecca picked up a pen.
“What did they show?”
Mercer answered slowly.
“They listed your Pasadena apartment as an asset available to secure a refinancing package.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“He doesn’t own it.”
“I know.”
“And he can’t pledge it.”
“I know.”
Rebecca’s expression became deadly serious.
I whispered, “Did he forge my signature?”
Mercer paused.
May you like
Then said the sentence that ended whatever remained of my marriage.
“Yes.”
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