7. Ex Parte
Chapter seven
Ex Parte
The elevator climbed over forty floors in a smooth, ear-popping ascent.
I leaned my shoulder against the paneled wall of the cab, shifting my weight to take some of the pressure off my lower back.
Beside me, Hayes stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
He looked entirely out of place in a building dedicated to corporate wealth, but he didn’t seem to care.
When the elevator jolted slightly to a halt, he reached out. His hand hovered near my elbow just to make sure I was steady before dropping back to his side.
The silver doors parted.
We stepped out into the reception area of Sinclair & Associates.
It was a space engineered to disarm you.
Instead of looking like a legal battlefield, it mimicked the lobby of a high-end contemporary museum.
Warm lighting illuminated massive abstract canvases on the walls.
Low-profile sofas were arranged around a polished teak coffee table. It was… pleasant. Aggressively so.
A receptionist sitting behind a curved desk offered me a polite greeting. I gave her my name, and she immediately stood up, her heels clicking softly as she guided us down a long hallway.
The inviting aesthetic vanished the farther we went, replaced by sharp angles, cold steel, and frosted glass. She stopped at a heavy door at the very end, opened it, and gestured for us to step inside.
The corner office was vast, bordered by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a dizzying, gray view of the city grid.
Julian Sinclair sat behind a massive desk. He was on the phone, speaking at a rapid clip, his attention fixed on a document in front of him. He held up a single index finger to acknowledge us. In one fluid motion, he signed his name at the bottom of the page and hung up the receiver.
He was in his early thirties, wearing a navy suit tailored with surgical precision. His tie was draped over the back of a nearby chair, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. He didn’t offer a hollow apology for making us wait. He just assessed me, then flicked his gaze over to Hayes.
“Julian Sinclair,” he said, gesturing to the leather chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat.”
I sat down. Hayes took the chair next to me, crossing his arms over his chest.
I rested my purse on my lap. The surface of Sinclair’s desk was uncluttered, save for a single, understated silver frame angled toward his keyboard.
It held a photograph of a dark-haired woman and a little girl.
It was a quiet reminder that the man sitting across from me had a life outside this glass box.
He had a family. Possibly one far better than my own.
“I reviewed the notes my assistant took when Hayes called ahead,” Sinclair said.
His voice was brisk, carrying the authority of a man whose time was billed by the minute.
“Your husband is a Vice President at Vanguard Financial. You suspect infidelity. You want to file for divorce, but he controls the marital capital.”
“That’s correct,” I said.
“Vanguard executives are a specific headache,” Sinclair noted, leaning back in his chair.
“They know how to insulate their money. The moment he receives a standard letter of representation from my office, he will drain the joint accounts. He will route his liquid cash into blind trusts. Then, he will use the court system to starve you out until you agree to a fraction of what you’re owed just to cover your daily living expenses. ”
“He already did it,” I said flatly. “I saw his dashboard at the clinic. He recently moved his stock portfolios into a private trust. He links our account alerts to his phone so he can monitor my pharmacy receipts. If he suspects I’m unhappy, he will lock the checking accounts.”
Sinclair didn’t offer any pity. He just absorbed the data.
“Moving marital assets into a private trust without your consent is active dissipation,” Sinclair said.
“That is exactly the leverage we need. It means we don’t send a letter.
We file an ex parte motion. We go to a judge in a closed chamber, present evidence of financial manipulation, and secure an emergency protective order.
We freeze his accounts, his credit, and his access to the house before he even knows I exist.”
He pulled a legal pad toward him.
“An injunction of this magnitude requires a seven-thousand-dollar initial retainer,” Sinclair continued, his tone dropping into a hard, uncompromising register. “If he monitors your cards, how do you plan to hire me?”
I unzipped my purse, pulled out the cash, and dropped it directly onto the center of his desk.
The heavy thud of the paper hitting the wood echoed in the quiet office.
Beside me, Hayes let out a slow, quiet breath. I hadn’t told him how much I got at the pawnshop, or what I sold to get it. He just stared at the stack of cash, a faint look of respect settling in his eyes.
Sinclair stopped talking. He looked down at the money. He reached out, picked up the bills, and ran his thumb across the green edges.
“Seven thousand,” I told him. “I sold a piece of jewelry he bought me. He won’t know it’s missing until he asks me to wear it.”
Sinclair tossed the cash back onto the desk. A genuinely impressed smile altered the sharp lines of his face.
“I like the way you operate, Mrs. Russell,” Sinclair said. He picked up a silver pen. “We have the financial grounds for the freeze. Now I need leverage for exclusive use of the marital home. Who is the mistress?”
I kept my voice entirely level. “My mother.”
Sinclair’s pen stopped moving.
He studied me for three long seconds. The sheer depravity of the situation physically stalled him. He didn’t gasp, but the professional mask cracked just enough to reveal a flash of genuine disgust.
“She moved into our guest room a month ago,” I explained, meeting his eyes without flinching. “I caught them red-handed. But they didn’t see me.”
Sinclair recovered. The shock vanished, shifting instantly into a calculating focus. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
“Family court judges have seen a lot,” Sinclair said, his voice dropping an octave.
“But sleeping with a live-in relative while the wife is carrying his child? That guarantees the judge won’t feel a shred of pity for him when we freeze his life.
But I need irrefutable proof. Text messages and suspicions won’t convince a court to kick a man out of his own house. ”
Hayes shifted in the chair next to me.
“We installed cameras in the house,” he said, seamlessly taking over the logistical explanation. “Living room, guest room, and his home office. Hidden lenses, running on an independent server. We’ll have high-definition audio and video.”
“Disable the audio,” Sinclair ordered instantly.
Hayes frowned. “Why?”
“Because recording a conversation you aren’t actively participating in is a felony wiretap violation,” Sinclair stated. “Marcus’s lawyers would use it to have you both arrested, and the evidence would be completely inadmissible. Video only.”
Hayes didn’t argue or let his ego get in the way. He just nodded once, respecting the competence. “Done.”
Sinclair shifted his focus back to me. “Is your name on the deed to the house?”
“Jointly,” I answered.
“Good. You have the right to monitor the common areas. The guest room footage might be legally inadmissible due to expectation of privacy laws,” Sinclair warned, jotting a quick note on the pad.
“But we won’t need to submit it to the court.
We’ll just slide a screenshot across the table in mediation and let him realize we have him by the throat. When do you want to drop this on him?”
“Her fiftieth birthday is in three weeks,” I said. “She’s hosting a dinner party at a restaurant downtown. She invited our extended family, her country club friends, and the CEO of Marcus’s bank.”
Sinclair’s eyes lit up, recognizing the tactical advantage without a second thought.
“If his CEO finds out about this, the morals clause in his employment contract triggers,” Sinclair deduced. “He’s terminated for cause. His unvested stock options evaporate.”
“He loses the income,” I said. “And Sylvia loses her meal ticket.”
Sinclair checked a calendar on his desk.
“Friday the twenty-eighth,” Sinclair verified. He pulled a thick, printed contract out of a drawer and slid it across the wood, laying it next to the stack of pawnshop cash. He handed me his pen.
“Upload the living room and office footage to my firm’s secure portal as soon as you have it,” Sinclair instructed.
“I’ll draft the filings. On the afternoon of the twenty-eighth, right before the courthouse closes for the weekend, I will submit the emergency motion.
By the time they sit down to order their appetizers, his credit cards will decline.
He will spend the entire weekend locked out of his own capital, and he won’t be able to reach a judge until Monday morning. ”
I looked down at the signature line.
“But you have to be careful, Mrs. Russell,” Sinclair warned, his tone practical and deadly serious. “You don’t change your spending. You don’t pull away or act cold. If his routine is disrupted, he will check his accounts, and he will see me coming. You play the role perfectly.”
“I can do it,” I said.
I signed my name on the bottom line. I didn’t hesitate, and my hand didn’t shake.
Sinclair took the contract back. He picked up the stack of hundred-dollar bills.
“I’ll log this in the firm’s safe and email your receipt,” Sinclair said, rising from his chair. “We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Russell.”
I stood up. Hayes was already standing, waiting for me. I gripped the strap of my purse. The suffocating, isolated weight I had been carrying all morning was gone, replaced by the comfort of the signed retainer.
We walked out of the office and headed back toward the elevators.
The afternoon heat radiated off the concrete the second we stepped out of the lobby.