431 He Slapped Her on Their Wedding Day — It Was the Last Time He Ever Saw Her!

Moving to Chicago was like stepping out of a dark room into the bright, cold wind of the lake.

Within a month, I had rented a small but elegant apartment in Lincoln Park. My days were consumed by the high-pressure environment of Vance & Associates. The work was grueling, but it was the kind of labor that built muscle, not the suffocating, performative existence I had endured with Julian.

Leo Vance was an incredible mentor. He didn't treat me like a victim or a fragile survivor of a public scandal. He treated me like a weapon.

"The grand jury has approved the subpoenas for the Voss Industrial financial records," Leo said one evening, walking into my office with a stack of files. It was nearly 8:00 PM, and the city lights were reflecting on the dark surface of Lake Michigan outside my window. "But Reginald Voss’s attorneys have filed a motion to quash, claiming executive privilege and proprietary trade secrets."

"They’re hiding the Pharaoh Chemical connection," I said, not looking up from my laptop where I was drafting our opposition brief. "We need to show the court that the privilege is pierced by the crime-fraud exception. If they used corporate funds to pay off witnesses in a manslaughter investigation, they have no legal protection."

"We need a witness from the inside," Leo said, sitting on the edge of my desk. "Someone who was in the room when the decisions were made."

"I have someone," I said, finally looking up. "Toby Henderson. He was the assistant CFO at Voss Industrial during the fire. He retired suddenly six months after the settlement and moved to a ranch in Wyoming. I always thought his retirement package looked more like hush money."

"Wyoming is outside our primary jurisdiction for a quick subpoena," Leo murmured, his grey eyes studying my face. "We’d have to go get him ourselves."

"Then let’s go," I said.

Before we could finalize the logistics, my personal phone began to ring. The number was blocked, but I answered it anyway, a habit from my years of pro bono work.

"Nora."

The voice was Julian’s. He sounded different—slurred, frantic, his usual polished charm replaced by a desperate, jagged edge.

"Julian," I said, my voice instantly turning to ice. "This number is for professional use. You have been served with the annulment papers. Speak to my attorney."

"You think you can just run to Chicago and pretend we didn't happen?" Julian snarled, his voice rising. "My father is losing his mind, Nora. The board is questioning our IPO valuation because of the rumors you’re spreading. You think Leo Vance can protect you? He’s just using you to get to our family’s assets!"

"I’m not spreading rumors, Julian," I said, looking at Leo, who was watching me with a quiet, protective intensity. "I’m spreading the truth. And unlike your family’s money, the truth doesn't require an offshore account to exist. Goodbye."

I hung up the phone and immediately blocked the number.