Chapter 6 - DISCOVERYJackson’s lawsuit lasted sixteen days before his own attorney tried to withdraw it.
Rebecca objected.
By then, requests for production had already gone out.
Bank statements.
Tax returns.
Loan applications.
Internal emails.
Business valuations.
Communications with Derek Holt.
Documents relating to my trust.
Every financial representation Jackson had made to lenders.
Every transaction he claimed I had disrupted.
Jackson had wanted a weapon.
Instead, he handed us a key.
The first major discovery arrived in three digital folders containing more than twelve thousand pages.
Mercer and his team began reviewing them.
On day two, they found a $600,000 transfer from a lender into Ellison Capital.
On day four, they found that $410,000 had been moved to G&E Holdings.
On day five, $150,000 moved from G&E Holdings to a company owned by Genesis.
On day six, Mercer called me.
“Do you know what Belladonna Interiors is?”
“No.”
“Genesis does.”
The company supposedly provided interior design consulting.
It had no employees.
No office.
No meaningful website.
Yet Ellison-related companies paid Belladonna Interiors almost $900,000 over five years.
“What did she do?”
“That’s the interesting part.”
“What?”
“We can’t find evidence she did anything.”
Money went in.
Luxury expenses came out.
Jackson’s family lifestyle had effectively been supported by transfers disguised as business costs.
Whether every transaction was illegal was for attorneys and investigators to determine.
But it was ugly.
Then Mercer found something personal.
Payments to a woman named Vanessa Lane.
Monthly.
For almost two years.
$5,000.
Sometimes $8,000.
Sometimes more.
I knew what it looked like.
Rebecca warned me not to jump to conclusions.
So we investigated.
Vanessa was not a mistress.
She was worse for Jackson.
She was a former bookkeeper.
And she had apparently been paid to remain silent.
Mercer located her in Arizona.
She initially refused to speak.
Then Jackson’s attorneys subpoenaed documents relating to financial losses.
That changed her mind.
Vanessa contacted Rebecca herself.
“I kept copies,” she said during our first call.
“Copies of what?” Rebecca asked.
“Everything.”
The meeting took place in a neutral law office in Phoenix.
Vanessa was forty-five, soft-spoken, and visibly terrified.
She placed a flash drive on the table.
“I worked for Edward first,” she explained. “Then Jackson.”
“For how long?”
“Eleven years.”
“What happened?”
“I asked too many questions.”
“About?”
“Where money came from.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I knew about you.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Jackson talked about you before you were married.”
“How long before?”
She thought.
“Not long after you started dating.”
“What did he say?”
Vanessa hesitated.
Then answered.
“That you were the answer.”
The room went silent.
“The answer to what?”
“The family’s liquidity problem.”
I stared at her.
Vanessa continued rapidly, almost as if she needed the confession out of her body.
“At first, I thought he meant because you worked in finance. Maybe connections. Investors. Advice. Then I realized your family had assets.”
“Did Jackson marry me for money?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“What can you answer?”
“He knew your grandmother owned real estate before he proposed.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Vanessa slid printed emails across the table.
One was from Jackson to Edward.
Three months before our engagement.
Claire’s grandmother’s structure is complicated, but eventually Claire should control a meaningful portion. Don’t push. This needs to happen naturally.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My hands became numb.
Another email.
She keeps finances private. We need patience.
Another.
Prenup is still smart. Makes me look less interested in her assets.
I stopped reading.
Rebecca quietly removed the papers from my hands.
“You don’t need to continue.”
“Yes, I do.”
The next email was dated the morning Jackson proposed.
Tonight. Wish me luck.
Edward replied:
Bring home the future.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped the floor.
“I need a minute.”
I walked into an empty hallway.
For several minutes, I simply stood there.
I did not cry.
I wished I could.
Instead, memories replayed like evidence exhibits.
Jackson asking about my grandmother.
Jackson encouraging me to talk about inheritance.
Jackson insisting on a prenup.
Jackson saying he admired my independence.
How much had been real?
Eventually Vanessa joined me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was scared.”
“Everyone was scared.”
“I had two children.”
“So did that make it okay?”
“No.”
At least she didn’t insult me by pretending.
“I left when Edward asked me to backdate records. Jackson paid me severance. Then payments continued.”
“Hush money?”
She nodded.
“Why are you talking now?”
“Because he stopped paying three months ago.”
I laughed bitterly.
“So conscience arrived after the checks stopped?”
Vanessa’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.”
It was such an ugly, truthful answer that I respected it more than an excuse.
She gave us the flash drive.
Inside were thousands of emails, spreadsheets, invoices, and transaction records.
One file referenced me repeatedly.
CB Strategy.
I stared at the title.
Inside was a timeline.
My relationship with Jackson reduced to financial milestones.
Dating.
Engagement.
Marriage.
Grandmother’s health.
Trust distribution estimate.
Potential real estate access.
Career compensation.
Equity value.
My life converted into columns.
At the bottom was a projection.
Estimated reachable capital: $8M–$15M.
I finally cried.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just tears falling onto the conference table while Rebecca sat beside me.
Six years of marriage.
Birthdays.
Christmas mornings.
Sunday coffee.
Arguments.
Vacations.
Inside jokes.
A thousand ordinary moments.
And somewhere, buried beneath them, my husband had maintained a spreadsheet calculating my usefulness.
That evening, I returned to Los Angeles alone.
Madison called.
I told her what we found.
She became silent.
Then said, “Claire, there’s something I never told you.”
“What?”
“Before your wedding, Mom told me not to become too close to you.”
“Why?”
“She said you were temporary until things were secure.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought she meant emotionally. Like she didn’t think the marriage would last.”
“Madison.”
“I know.”
“No more secrets.”
“I promise.”
The following morning, Jackson’s legal team requested settlement discussions.
Rebecca showed me the proposal.
Jackson would dismiss his lawsuit.
He would agree to an uncontested divorce.
He would waive claims against my assets.
In exchange, I would agree not to cooperate further with any investigation involving his family’s finances.
I looked at Rebecca.
“Can he ask for that?”
“He can ask for almost anything.”
“What happens if I agree?”
“It could complicate your obligations depending on subpoenas and ongoing investigations. I would never recommend language requiring you to conceal evidence.”
I pushed the document away.
“No.”
“Good.”
“No settlement that protects them from consequences.”
Rebecca nodded.
“We can negotiate a clean divorce separately.”
Jackson called my attorney ten minutes later.
Not his attorney.
Himself.
Rebecca placed him on speaker only after confirming the contact was legally permissible through counsel.
His voice sounded exhausted.
“Claire.”
I said nothing.
“I know you’re there.”
Rebecca said, “Make your proposal.”
Jackson breathed heavily.
“Come home.”
I nearly laughed.
He continued.
“I’ll fix everything.”
“You can’t.”
“I love you.”
That was the first time those words made me angry.
“You kept a spreadsheet about my inheritance.”
Silence.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
“My father asked me to estimate resources.”
“Resources?”
“I was under pressure.”
“I was your wife.”
“You still are.”
“No. Legally, temporarily.”
“Claire, please.”
I heard something crack in his voice.
For one dangerous second, I remembered the man I thought I married.
Then I remembered blood running down my face.
“You threw a plate at my head because I said no.”
“I lost control.”
“That’s the problem.”
“I’ll go to therapy.”
“For yourself, I hope.”
“What do you want from me?”
I thought about it.
“I want you to tell the truth.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
He became quiet.
Then he whispered:
“If I do that, my father goes to prison.”
And there it was.
Not denial.
Not confusion.
Fear.
Rebecca leaned toward the phone.
“Jackson, you should speak with criminal counsel before saying anything further.”
But I needed one answer.
“Did your father tell you to forge my signature?”
Long silence.
Jackson whispered:
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
For one moment, I almost believed he was taking responsibility.
May you like
Then he added:
“My mother did.”
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