Chapter 3: Ambush in the Atrium
Heavy, relentless rain battered the floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass windows of the downtown attorney’s office. The storm outside matched the hollow, echoing sound within the cavernous marble lobby. The central air conditioning was blasting a freezing chill through the room, making the leather bench I sat on feel like a block of ice.
I sat alone, my bandaged right hand resting in my lap, staring at the text message Liam had sent exactly an hour ago.
Serena, this is your absolute last chance. Surrender the Park Avenue condo and your shares, or I will ensure you leave this marriage with nothing but the clothes on your back.
The ornate gold clock on the lobby wall had already ticked past 2:30 PM.
When the heavy brass front doors finally pushed open, letting in a gust of wet wind, the person who walked through wasn’t my coward of a husband.
Khloe strutted in. She was poured into a skin-tight, black designer mourning dress, teetering on stilettos that clicked sharply against the marble. But she wasn’t alone. Behind her, moving in perfect, intimidating synchronization, were four massive private security guards. They wore cheap black suits that strained against their bulging muscles, instantly fanning out to seal off my corner of the lobby, blocking the exits.
Khloe paused, dramatically taking off her oversized sunglasses. She looked down her surgically enhanced nose at me, a victorious, utterly wicked smirk playing on her bright red lips.
“Mrs. Lawson. I am so terribly sorry for the delay,” she drawled, dripping with fake sympathy. “Mr. Lawson was pulled into a billion-dollar international conference call this afternoon. He decided to delegate trivial, tedious matters—like your divorce signing—to me, his humble secretary.”
I didn’t even blink. I leaned comfortably back against the cold leather bench, crossing my legs elegantly, and spoke lightly into the tense air.
“Liam is too much of a spineless coward to show his own face, so he sends his low-class mistress to do his dirty work. Tell me, Khloe, when exactly did the mighty, untouchable CEO of Vanguard turn into a turtle hiding inside its shell?”
Khloe’s smug face stiffened, the fake smile fracturing. She let out a cold, sharp scoff. Reaching into her expensive leather tote, she pulled out a thick, heavy stack of legal documents and slammed them violently onto the glass coffee table next to me.
“Serena, you are literally at the end of the line, and you still have the audacity to run that smart mouth of yours.” Khloe leaned over, planting her hands on the table, bringing her face uncomfortably close to mine. Her breath smelled of stale mints and desperation, her voice dropping into a venomous hiss.
“Mr. Lawson has already signed his portion of the paperwork today. You are going to sign on the dotted line right now, whether you want to or not. Take a good look at these gentlemen standing behind you. They are paid very well, and they do not have much patience for stubborn housewives.”
On cue, the four hulking bodyguards stepped forward in unison, their sheer mass cutting off every possible escape route. The lobby was nearly empty due to the storm. A few paralegals and clerks glanced over, their eyes widening at the blatant display of muscle, and instinctively backed away, scurrying into their private offices and locking the doors.
I ignored the goons and calmly flipped open the heavy stock paper of the forged asset division contract. It was a masterclass in extortion. It blatantly stated that I voluntarily surrendered all corporate voting shares, signed away every piece of marital real estate, and, most sickeningly, yielded full legal and physical custody of Gracie to Liam. At the absolute bottom of the final page, Liam’s flamboyant, arrogant signature was already scrawled in blue ink.
Forging asset divisions. Extorting signatures under the threat of physical violence. They were playing a very dangerous, highly illegal game.
I slowly looked up to meet Khloe’s provoking, expectant stare. Without breaking eye contact, I reached into my pocket, took out my phone, and openly pressed the audio record button, placing it face up on the table.
“Khloe,” I asked conversationally, “how many years in a federal penitentiary do you think a judge will hand you when these blatant extortion documents land on their desk?”
Khloe acted as if I had just told the funniest joke in the history of the world. She threw her head back, laughing wildly, a shrill, grating sound.
“Serena, do you honestly believe you are still some high and mighty, untouchable heiress?” she mocked, wiping a fake tear from her eye. “The Deputy Commissioner of the NYPD had expensive scotch with Mr. Lawson just last night. They are practically brothers. Even if you died of a sudden ‘heart attack’ right here in this lobby today, it would just be ruled a tragic, unavoidable accident. Take the damn pen.”
The instant the words left her mouth, two of the bodyguards moved. They reached out simultaneously, their massive, meaty hands clamping down heavily, pinning my shoulders to the bench with crushing force from the left and right.
Khloe smiled maliciously. She reached out, grabbing my freshly burned, bandaged right hand. With aggressive, cruel force, she shoved a heavy Montblanc fountain pen into my fingers, gripping my knuckles and trying to physically force my hand down toward the signature line.
The fluid-filled blisters on the back of my hand, caused by her scalding soup yesterday, ruptured instantly under her crushing grip. A piercing, blinding agony rushed up my arm, threatening to make me pass out.
But I refused to give her a scream.
Instead, the moment my left hand was free from her focus, I slipped it smoothly into the hidden, custom-designed compartment of my Hermès bag. My fingers wrapped around the familiar, comforting grip of a high-voltage, tactical stun gun. It slid smoothly into my palm.
In one fluid, explosive motion, I backhanded the device directly into the exposed ribs of the two-hundred-pound brute pinning my left shoulder, and jammed my thumb onto the trigger switch.
CRACK-ZAP!
Amidst the blinding, crackling blue electrical sparks that lit up the dim lobby, the brute didn’t even have time to yell. Fifty thousand volts of raw current dumped into his nervous system. His massive body convulsed violently, launching backward. His eyes rolled back into his skull, and he crashed heavily to the marble floor, twitching uncontrollably.
“What the hell?!” The bodyguard on my right was completely shocked, his grip loosening in sheer panic.
Taking full advantage of his distraction, I violently twisted my wrist, breaking his hold. I lunged upward, driving the sparking prongs of the stun gun fiercely into the soft, unprotected flesh of his neck.
The high-voltage current instantly scrambled his brain signals. He let out a choked gurgle and slumped over a row of waiting chairs, completely unconscious before he hit the ground.
“Security! Help! She’s attacking us!” Khloe turned a ghostly shade of pale, shrieking in utter terror as she stumbled backward on her stilettos, desperately trying to put distance between us.
Seeing their partners drop in seconds, the remaining two bodyguards gritted their teeth, abandoning their intimidation tactics, and lunged at me with violent intent.
I didn’t hesitate. I spun around, shooting my right arm out, and violently yanked the bright red fire alarm lever mounted on the marble wall.
Instantly, deafening, ear-piercing sirens blared throughout the entire high-rise building. Three seconds later, the ceiling’s industrial sprinkler system engaged with a massive, explosive whoosh.
Freezing cold, rust-tinged water poured down from the ceiling like a tropical monsoon, soaking everyone and everything to the bone in an absolute instant.
The lobby descended into total, unmitigated chaos. The blaring sirens masked the screams, and the sound of panicked running feet echoed everywhere as employees poured out of offices, rushing blindly for the emergency exits.
In the blurry, freezing curtain of indoor rain, the other two bodyguards were knocked off balance, shoved aside by the panicked crowd of lawyers and clients fleeing the building. It became physically impossible for them to push through the tide of bodies to reach me.
Khloe shrieked miserably in the downpour. Her expensive silk dress clung to her like a wet trash bag. She tried to run, but her stilettos slipped violently on the slick, waterlogged marble floor. She went airborne for a second before crashing hard, face-first, into a deep puddle of freezing water.
Her prized Birkin bag flew from her grasp, hitting the floor and bursting open. A mountain of private documents, makeup, and electronics scattered everywhere, rapidly getting soaked in the rushing water.
Defying the torrential rain, I took heavy, purposeful strides until I stood directly over Khloe’s prone body. Under her terrified, mascara-streaked gaze, I raised my foot and stomped the sharp heel of my shoe hard onto the back of her hand just as she reached out to desperately claw her spilled documents back.
“Ahhh! Serena, you are a complete psycho!” Khloe howled in agony, thrashing in the murky water.
I bent down, ignoring her cries. My sharp eyes had caught something specific. A sleek, black leather folio that had rolled out of the very bottom of her bag.
I snatched it up and popped the clasp. Inside, miraculously protected in plastic sleeves, were official, stamped banking instruments for offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. Along with them lay a secure, digital RSA banking token and freshly forged power-of-attorney documents bearing Liam’s signature, granting Khloe total control over Vanguard’s hidden asset streams.
These were the holy grail. The core financial instruments Liam constantly used to launder money offshore and secretly siphon Vanguard’s liquid assets away from the board’s oversight. I had spent a year trying to find proof of these accounts. I never, in my wildest dreams, expected him to be stupid enough to leave something so devastatingly crucial in the hands of an idiot like Khloe.
I swiftly shoved the banking documents and the RSA token deep into the waterproof inner pocket of my trench coat. Then, I looked down at the completely drenched, pathetic, shivering state of Khloe Carmichael.
“Pass a message along to Liam for me,” I commanded, brushing the water droplets off my coat lapel. My voice rang crystal clear, cutting straight through the blaring fire alarms.
“Tell him I am officially collecting the first installment of interest on his massive debt today. Tell him his days are numbered.”
