My husband had no idea my annual income was $2.7 million when he screamed at me, “Hey, you sick bitch! I’ve already filed the divorce papers. Get out of my house tomorrow!”

“They’re taking my laptop,” Trent whispered. “They said it might contain financial records because my business is linked to the mortgage.”

Naomi nodded faintly. That was the opening—if he’d tied his business to the house or misrepresented finances, discovery would be brutal.

“Trent,” I asked, “did you ever put the house under your company’s name?”

He hesitated. “No—well—my accountant suggested—”

I let out a slow breath. There it was.

Naomi took the phone, her voice smooth and lethal. “Trent, this is Naomi Park. You’ve been served. You will comply with the temporary order. Any interference with the property inventory will be treated as a violation.”

He sounded sick. “Naomi, please. Tell her we can talk. I’ll apologize. I’ll do therapy. I—”

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