Chapter 3 - The Art of the Counter-Strike
I walked out of that restaurant a different man. The soft-hearted father and the doting husband were gone. In their place stood the man who had built an empire from the dirt, the man who knew how to gut a rival before they even knew the war had started.
I didn't go home. I went to my lawyer’s office. I didn't tell him everything, just enough to trigger a silent audit of every joint account, every deed, and every holding company I shared with Eleanor.
“Richard,” my lawyer, Marcus, said after an hour of reviewing the red flags I’d flagged, “she’s been draining the accounts for months. She’s moving capital into a shell company called ‘White Hydrangea Holdings.’ If you don’t lock this down by tomorrow, you’ll be bankrupt before the weekend.”
“Don’t lock it down,” I countered, a cold, predatory light in my eyes. “Let her keep moving it. Let her think she’s winning. I need her to pull every single penny into that account. When she thinks she’s at the finish line, I want to be the one holding the tape.”
I returned home that evening to find Eleanor in the kitchen, just as I had left her. She was smiling, sipping tea. She looked up, her eyes wide with manufactured concern.
“Did you get your pills, dear?”
May you like
“I did,” I said, stepping into her space. I felt a surge of adrenaline, not fear. “Everything is going to be just fine, Eleanor. Better than fine.”
She froze, her tea saucer rattling against the china. She looked at me, searching for any sign that I knew. I gave her nothing but a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
