5. The Silent Injunction
Chapter five
The Silent Injunction
The next day, in the center of the foyer, Simon leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead. The sharp scent of his peppermint toothpaste made my stomach turn.
“Nina and I have a three-hour client lunch downtown,” he murmured, adjusting his silk tie in the entryway mirror. “Call me if your legs start aching again.”
“I will,” I promised, keeping my hands neatly folded in my lap. “Have a good lunch.”
The oak door clicked shut. I sat perfectly still on the marble floor, listening to the low purr of his sports car engine fade down the driveway. Once the street fell silent, I grabbed the knit throw blanket suffocating my legs and shoved it onto the floor.
Leaving the house without his permission felt like jumping out of a moving car, and a cold sweat broke across my skin.
I gripped the rubber-coated rims of my wheelchair and pushed myself into the kitchen.
The chair rolled smoothly against the hardwood.
I parked parallel to the marble island and pulled my primary smartphone from my sweater pocket.
Simon tracked the internal GPS on my device.
If the blip moved past the front gate, he would abort his lunch and return immediately.
My fingers trembled against the smooth countertop.
I reached for the white charging cable plugged into the wall, but my grip faltered.
The metal tip slipped, clattering against the marble.
I inhaled a slow, ragged breath, forced my hands to steady, and tried again.
It took two more fumbles before I finally managed to plug the cable in.
I tapped the screen, opening a random comedy podcast and cranking the volume.
“…so I told him, you can’t just put a lawnmower in the living room!”
The host’s tinny audio echoed off the cabinets, providing a perfect digital alibi to mask my absence.
I reached down to the black canvas pouch bolted beneath my armrest and unzipped it. I bypassed the steel thermos hiding inside and pulled out the cheap burner phone Owen had given me. The rigid plastic bit into my palm under my tight grip. I dialed the number for a private luxury car service.
“Yes, I need a car at the Prescott estate immediately,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll need the driver to assist with a wheelchair.”
“We have a driver ten minutes away, ma’am,” the dispatcher replied over the static. “Will you need a return trip?”
“Yes. I need him to wait for me at the destination. I’ll pay double the rate in cash for absolute discretion.”
“Understood. The car is on the way.”
I dropped the burner phone into my lap, wrestled my wool coat off the hallway hook, and wheeled myself directly to the front door. The ten-minute wait stretched into an agonizing eternity. Every scrape of a branch against the glass made me glance nervously at the driveway.
Finally, a black SUV pulled up to the curb. The driver jogged up the front steps. He didn’t ask questions. He gripped the push handles of my chair, tilted me back over the threshold, and eased the rear wheels down the porch stairs.
The bright sunlight forced me to squint.
The raw, unfiltered wind, smelling of damp soil and asphalt, stung my cheeks.
The outside world was overwhelmingly loud, an abrasive rush of noise and motion I hadn’t experienced in months.
He guided me up the mechanical ramp and locked my brakes in the rear transport bay.
The heavy door slammed shut, sealing me inside the cabin as the SUV pulled away from my prison.
The driver wheeled me over the threshold of Lawrence Stanton’s corner office and backed away, pulling the door shut behind him.
The heavy wood immediately muted the chaotic roar of the downtown traffic, plunging the room into a profound silence.
A blast of air conditioning washed over my face, carrying the rich, distinct scent of polished mahogany and old legal paper.
Lawrence was reviewing a brief at his desk.
He looked up, his expression tight with professional annoyance at the unannounced interruption.
Then, his gaze settled on my face. The annoyance vanished, replaced by an unguarded, jarring shock.
He stared at my hollow cheekbones, the lank hair falling over my collar, and the thick wool coat drowning my emaciated frame.
The genuine horror on his face told me everything I needed to know. For six months, Simon and Nina had been my only mirrors, constantly twisting reality to make me accept my own decay. Now, looking at Lawrence, I saw exactly how much I resembled a dying animal.
Lawrence stood up so fast his leather chair creaked. He crossed the expansive room in four long strides and twisted the brass lock on the double doors.
“My God, Audrey,” he said, his voice dropping into a harsh, tight whisper. “You look terrible. What the hell is happening at that house?”
I gripped the rubber rims of my wheels and pushed myself forward, parking directly in the center of the Persian rug.
I refused to let him pity me. I needed the ruthless corporate lawyer right now, not his paternal sympathy.
I locked my elbows against the metal armrests, sitting perfectly straight to project an authority I barely possessed.
“Simon is poisoning me to force the proxy signing next Friday,” I said. My tone came out flat, entirely devoid of the tears he likely expected. “He’s sleeping with Nina.”
Saying the words out loud in the sterile light of a law firm finally made them real. It wasn’t just a nightmare anymore. It was a stated fact.
Lawrence stopped in his tracks, his hand falling away from the doorframe.
He stared down at me, aggressively rubbing the silver stubble on his jaw.
The paternal concern bled out of his posture.
He slowly backed up and leaned his hips against the edge of his desk, projecting the terrifying calm of an attorney preparing to gut a rival company.
“That is a massive accusation,” Lawrence said, his eyes scanning my face for any sign of hysteria. “Do you have any proof at all?”
“A private tox screen is running right now,” I told him, keeping my gaze anchored squarely on his. “But I need you to draft the paperwork today. I want his assets frozen the second he tries to sign that proxy.”
I wanted him stripped of every single dime the moment his pen touched that paper.
Lawrence pushed off the edge of his desk and began to pace.
The soles of his leather shoes struck a slow, steady beat against the hardwood border of the Persian rug.
He didn’t offer any empty platitudes or tell me it was going to be okay.
Instead, he walked the length of the office twice, his jaw tight, his eyes focused strictly on the floorboards.
The muted drone of traffic from the street forty stories below filled the tense quiet. I tracked his movements from my wheelchair, keeping my spine completely rigid against the canvas backing.
He pivoted on his heel, stepped back to his mahogany desk, and grabbed a yellow legal pad.
He clicked his silver pen and began writing in rapid-fire bursts.
The sharp, abrasive scratch of the ink dragging across the paper sounded louder than the city outside.
He was already building a tactical timeline.
After filling half a page, he set the pad down. He reached for the crystal carafe resting on a side console and poured a glass of water. He crossed the rug and held it out to me.
I pulled my right hand off the metal armrest and accepted the drink.
The condensation immediately cooled my palms. I wrapped my fingers around the smooth crystal, focusing on the freezing moisture to keep my mind from spinning.
I swallowed hard against the dry tightness in my throat, forcing myself to face exactly what we were about to do.
I was preparing to ruin my husband, burn his reputation to ash, and sever the life we had built together over the last five years.
I searched my own chest for a single flicker of hesitation.
A lingering echo of the woman who used to love him.
Simon’s smooth, patronizing voice drifted from my hospital room as he casually discussed treating me like a piece of broken furniture and shipping me to a facility.
Just until next Friday. The memory didn’t hurt.
There was nothing left to bruise. Just a hollow, calculating hunger to see him eradicated.
“I can file a silent corporate injunction,” Lawrence said, stopping directly in front of my chair. “But it will only hit his accounts if I have hard proof to defend it to a judge, Audrey. A court won’t freeze a sitting CEO’s assets on hearsay.”
I squeezed the sweating glass. “You’ll have the lab results today, and I’ll get you a video of him and Nina.”
Lawrence stopped rubbing his jaw. He studied my face, taking in my expression and the unwavering eye contact. The last lingering traces of pity shifted into a sharp, professional respect. He saw the change in me immediately. I was done begging for help—I was preparing to go to war.
“If you get me that, I will personally hand him the divorce papers at the dining room table next Friday,” Lawrence said. He pointed his pen at the legal pad. “He won’t see a single cent of your agency.”
Stripping him of his money and taking my company back wasn’t enough. Not after six months of forced paralysis. Not after the burning agony I endured on my living room floor at midnight.
“What about criminal charges for the poisoning?”
Before Lawrence could answer my question, a harsh vibration pulsed against my thigh.
The hidden burner phone in my coat pocket demanded immediate attention.
I leaned forward and set the crystal glass down on the edge of the mahogany desk to free my hands.
Slipping my fingers into the wool lining, I pulled out the cheap plastic device.
I swiped the screen awake. The bright glare of a PDF document illuminated my face, accompanied by a secure message from Owen.
Lab results confirmed. It’s a heavy neuromuscular blocker. The dosage in that smoothie was massive.
I stared at the glowing text. A sudden, sharp surge of energy flooded through me. For six months, Simon had stood over my bed, feeding me a steady stream of lies about degenerative nerve diseases. Nina had sat beside me, fluffing my pillows while helping him execute the illusion.
I wasn’t losing my mind. My body wasn’t naturally failing. I gripped the hard plastic edges of the phone, and my hands remained completely steady. The neurological tremors were gone. The medical proof glowing on the screen finally broke the invisible hold Simon had on me.
I thrust the device upward. “There’s your proof. Read it.”
Lawrence closed the distance between us.
The rough texture of his tailored suit jacket brushed against the armrest of my wheelchair as he reached down to take the phone.
He stood in silence, scrolling slowly through the chemical breakdown on the small screen.
I watched him grind his teeth as a dark flush of anger crawled up his neck, the brutal truth of what Simon had done finally hitting him.
He exhaled a furious, ragged breath and lowered the screen.
“This is a felony,” Lawrence said, his tone dropping into a ruthless, clinical calm. “But without a confession, a defense lawyer could blame the chef or Nina.”
He lowered the phone, turning to walk around his desk. He braced his hands flat against the desk, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Once you get that video, I’ll take this straight to the DA so we can coordinate the police action for next week,” Lawrence continued. “We will make the narrative airtight before they knock on your door.”
I squared my shoulders, staring directly at the man preparing to execute my husband’s ruin.
“Make sure they’re waiting outside the house on Friday.”
Lawrence reached across the expanse of the polished desk, handing the device back to me.
I opened my palm, letting the burner phone drop into my hand.
Behind him, the cool draft of the air-conditioning vent rattled a stray piece of thick legal paper.
He gathered the yellow legal pad he had just filled with tactical notes, sliding it neatly beneath a leather blotter.
“I’ll keep this out of the firm’s main system,” Lawrence said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur.
He tapped the brass lock on his top desk drawer.
“Simon still has inside contacts at the bank who might flag a digital query on his accounts. I’ll draft the injunction manually tonight and vault the physical copies right here in my office.
Simon won’t see a thing until the meeting. ”
I slipped the device deep into the lined pocket of my wool coat, letting the thick fabric conceal my only connection to the outside world. With my hands free, I lowered them to the metal armrests of my wheelchair, pressing my steady palms flat against the steel.
“Thank you, Lawrence,” I told him, holding his gaze without flinching. “For believing me.”
“I never doubted you,” he replied quietly.
He didn’t offer a patronizing smile. He didn’t tilt his head with pity. The corporate shark standing in front of me simply nodded, recognizing the absolute shift in my demeanor. I wasn’t the desperate, trembling woman who had fled the estate an hour ago.
Mapping out the exact timeline to freeze Simon’s assets cleared the last of the pharmaceutical fog from my mind, returning me to a state of cold, absolute focus. The trap was officially set, and the sharp clarity of true control finally returned.
Lawrence walked around the edge of his desk. His shoes scuffed softly against the exposed floorboards. He stopped beside my chair and rested a hand on my shoulder. The firm, stabilizing pressure steadied me, a stark contrast to the skin-crawling touches Simon constantly forced upon me.
“You built that agency from the ground up, Audrey,” Lawrence said, a sharp, threatening edge lining his tone—a threat meant entirely for the man I married. “I’m not letting him steal it. Get home safe.”
“I will,” I replied. I dropped my hands to my wheels, gripping the treads with a sudden, renewed strength. “I’ll send you the video evidence as soon as I have it.”
I pivoted the chair, leaving the Persian rug behind.
The chair glided smoothly toward the solid mahogany doors, pointing me back toward my prison.
Beyond the soundproofed walls, a faint, mechanical noise signaled the arrival of my transport back to the estate.
The dull hum of the arriving elevator vibrated through the floorboards, and I rolled forward to finish the job.