Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
GISELLE
T he morning sun poured gently into my bedroom, casting a soft golden glow across my cream-colored sheets and my sleek, ivory headboard as I stretched in my luxurious silk nightgown, savoring the smooth fabric against my skin.
My face, still youthful and radiant thanks to a carefully curated routine of skincare, injections, and a healthy dose of denial, twisted into a satisfied smile as I scrolled through the lavish homepage of Femme Luxe, eagerly searching for the latest treasures.
That was no ordinary shopping site; it was private and invite-only, a sanctuary designed for women like me who appreciated the finer things in life.
And there it was—the highly anticipated new Birkin drop. Crafted from exquisite matte crocodile leather and adorned with striking red stitching—only ten of these masterpieces existed in the entire world. The thrill of exclusivity sent a rush of excitement through me.
I added the coveted bag to my cart, a triumphant smirk spreading across my lips.
“Mine,” I whispered to myself, already envisioning the envious glances I would command at the next board meeting—if I even felt like attending.
With renewed enthusiasm, I tapped through to the checkout, humming a little gloating tune under my breath, reveling in the anticipation of my impending purchase.
But then, it happened.
Declined.
I froze mid-hum, blinking in disbelief at the screen.
"Hmph! I must’ve put in the wrong card number,” I mumbled, shaking off the momentary shock as I switched to my backup American Express, still holding on to that hopeful smile.
But again, the verdict came back: Declined.
My smile vanished, and the triumphant melody in my mind came to an abrupt halt.
I opened my Chase app, fully expecting to encounter a simple tech glitch that would resolve itself in a flash. Yet, the growing disquiet in my stomach hinted that something more was amiss. And then I saw it. $0.01.
One cent.
My throat went dry, and a wave of disbelief crashed over me. I nearly dropped my phone as the stark reality of the number settled in.
“No—no, no, no, this is—this has to be a mistake!”
With trembling hands, I rushed to my vanity, snatching up my gold-engraved checkbook and every credit card I owned—my lifelines to a life I thought I still had control over.
I sat down at my sleek, marble-topped desk, logged into my second bank account, and felt my heart drop.
Empty.
Panic clawed at my insides as I tried a third account.
That on e empty as well.
A high-pitched wail of horror ripped from my throat before I could stop it.
“Where the hell is all my money?!” I roared.
I began to pace across the pristine marble floors of my lavish home—barefoot, my silk robe flying behind me like a cape of despair—as I dialed the bank, heart racing as if the entire building were ablaze.
“Thank you for calling Norwood Private Banking. This is?—”
“Yes, this is Mrs. Giselle Kors! I need to speak with your manager immediately! Put me on with Elliot or whoever’s running that poor excuse of a fraud department!”
My voice sliced through the phone, sharp with urgency and heat. My pulse was racing.
“Ma’am, this is Elliot,” his voice replied smoothly, like he’d been waiting to ruin my day. “Let’s calm down first, okay?”
“Don’t patronize me!” I snapped. “I need to report a fraud! Someone has drained my?—”
“Mrs. Kors— Giselle …” he corrected gently, which only made my eye twitch. “I’m afraid there’s no fraud on record. The funds were legally withdrawn yesterday afternoon by your ex -husband, Mr. Robert Kors.”
“ Ex -husband?” I retorted, my voice rising in a blend of rage and disbelief.
“Yes. And as the joint account holder?—”
“I know who he is!” I cut off. “So you’re telling me he emptied all of them?!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Elliot answered without a single flinch in his voice. “And per our records, a power of attorney was also filed the same day, granting him full transferal rights to both shared and private accounts.”
My heart thudded painfully in my ears as the reality sank in.
It wasn’t just that he cleaned the accounts out that had me livid; it was the fact that I didn’t have a backup.
No mad money. No secret stash.
Why? Because my marriage was supposed to last . Because I never took Robert seriously when he talked about divorce. Because I never thought he’d have the guts .
I hung up on Elliot mid-sentence. I didn’t need to hear another scripted syllable from the fraud department’s finest; I needed to hear it from the horse’s own smug, betraying mouth.
My fingers trembled as I dialed Robert. He answered after two rings.
“I figured you’d be calling soon,” he said, his tone unsettlingly nonchalant.
“You piece of shit!” I spat, fury igniting my words. “You think this is funny?! Embarrassing me like this! You drained my accounts like a damn thief! You took everything!”
“You took everything from our family a long time ago, Giselle; I’m just balancing the scales and finishing what I started,” he replied, smooth as ever.
“And what is that supposed to mean?!”
“The divorce you’ve been convincing yourself would never happen? It’s real now… and permanent .”
“How, if I never signed any papers?”
Robert let out a slow, almost bored exhale, like he’d been waiting for that question.
“Giselle, you don’t have to sign anything for a divorce to go through.
I filed and served notice. You refused to sign, thinking that meant it wouldn’t move forward.
That’s not how this works. When one person files and follows procedure, the process keeps moving with or without the other’s cooperation.
Judges don’t stall because you decided to stick your head in the sand.
And let’s be honest—money speeds everything up.
When a person has the right lawyers and the right resources, delays disappear and judges stop entertaining games.
So while you were busy pretending, I was busy finalizing.
You’re free now, Giselle… just not in the way you wanted. ”
I could barely breathe, the walls closing in around me.
“I gave you almost forty years of my life?—”
“And you spent the last twenty trying to play God,” he interjected, the contempt in his voice sharpening. “Imanio warned you, but you couldn’t help yourself.”
“T-This is about that girl, isn’t it?! The one with the disease!”
“Watch your mouth!” he growled, the warning chilling me. “Naji has more grace in her pinky than you’ve had in your entire designer wardrobe.”
“I see what’s going on! Y’all are trying to ruin me!” I shouted, voice cracking.
“No need for us to go out of our way to do that when you did it yourself.”
Suddenly, the sharp chime of the doorbell sliced through the air, followed by heavy, deliberate knocks.
“Who’s …” I began.
“You might want to get that,” Robert cut in, smugly, amusement lacing his tone.
My mind raced, trying to piece together what else he had set in motion.
I stormed to the front door, heart racing, and flung it open with a force that echoed through the foyer.
There, standing resolutely on my doorstep, were two police officers—one tall, mid-thirties and imposing, the other shorter, older, but equally serious.
Their eyes swept past me into the house, their expressions leaving no room for negotiation.
“Hi,” I greeted dryly, arms folded tight across my chest. “How may I help you?” The words dripped with irritation, like they were wasting my time just standing there.
“Mrs. Kors… or shall I say, Ms. Russell?” the younger looking officer intoned, his voice steady yet cold. “We’re here to escort you off the property. You are no longer permitted to reside here.”
My mouth fell open in disbelief.
“I’m sorry—what?! This is my home! I’m not going anywhere!”
The officer, unmoved by my protest, calmly pulled out a thick stack of papers.
“It was your home ma’am… until Mr. Kors filed for and was granted an exclusive title transfer as part of the divorce judgment,” he stated firmly, handing me the paper. “You’ve been served.”
My fingers trembled as my eyes skimmed across the legal jargon.
Petition for dissolution… property reassignment… sole ownership vested in petitioner.
Each word felt like a blade slicing into the life I thought I still owned.
The house deed—gone. The equity—gone. And the judge’s stamp at the bottom made it all too real.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head as my throat tightened.
This can’t be right. This is my home. I picked the damn curtains. I made holidays here. I raised my kids here.
My knees threatened to give out, but I forced myself upright.
“It is valid,” one of the men reassured flatly. “You need to gather your belongings and leave the premises immediately.”
My heart pounded furiously against my ribs, as if trying to escape the suffocating reality caving in around me.
“Robert, you can’t be serious!” I yelled into the phone.
“It’s bad enough you emptied all the accounts, now you’re attempting to have me removed from the house?
! Thinking about it… we never signed a prenup or anything!
So even if we are legally divorced, I’m still entitled to something — half the assets, spousal support, something!
You don’t just get to erase years of marriage and leave me with nothing! ”
On the other end, Robert’s voice was maddeningly calm but merciless.
“Oh, you definitely did sign a prenup, sweetheart.”
“Wh-What?”