Chapter 4 - The Legal Siege
The next three weeks were a masterclass in psychological warfare. True to Rebecca’s warning, Arthur Pendelton turned the local tabloids into an absolute circus. Every morning, I had to pull the blinds shut to avoid the long-range lenses of paparazzi parked across the street. Columns were written about my "cold, aristocratic demeanor," with anonymous sources from Jason’s firm claiming I had never been a real wife, that I was obsessed with my father’s power, and that I had used the police department to monitor Jason’s movements long before the affair came to light.
Jason himself played the part of the grieving, remorseful husband to perfection. He appeared on local talk shows, his eyes downcast, his wedding ring still prominently displayed on his finger, claiming he still loved me, but that the "pressures of the Potter family dynamic" had driven him to a dark place.
Through it all, I didn't say a single word to the press. I didn't release statements. I didn't post on social media. I spent my days in the quiet sanctuary of Rebecca’s downtown office, surrounded by stacks of financial ledgers, text message transcripts, and vehicle tracking logs.
"They think they’ve set the trap," Rebecca said on a Tuesday afternoon, sliding a thick blue folder across her desk. The office smelled of old parchment and expensive coffee, a sharp contrast to the chaotic world outside the windows. "Pendelton just rejected our final pre-trial motion for a closed hearing. He wants the preliminary arraignment and the civil property dispute handled in open court next Thursday. He’s planning on bringing Chelsea Vance into the courtroom in a wheelchair, claiming she’s suffered a severe nervous collapse due to the police department’s 'aggressive surveillance.'"
I looked through the blue folder. Inside were the completed reports from the forensic accounting team my father had hired privately. "Did they find the offshore accounts, Rebecca?"
"They found everything, Olivia," Rebecca said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. "Jason didn't just use corporate funds to lease Chelsea’s Mercedes. Over the last six months, he’s transferred nearly 1.2 million dollars out of your joint investment portfolio into a shell company registered under Chelsea’s maiden name in Delaware. He was cleaning you out, Olivia. He wanted to leave you with the brownstone’s mortgage and an empty savings account by the time the baby was born."
"And Chelsea?"
"Chelsea signed every single transfer authorization as the corporate secretary of the shell company," Rebecca said. "She wasn't just a mistress having a breakdown, Olivia. She was an active partner in an organized financial heist against you."
I closed the folder, the weight of the paper solid and heavy against my fingers. I looked down at my stomach. I was nearly eight months pregnant now, my body heavy, my back aching constantly from the strain, but the fluid, dull panic that had haunted me in the parking garage had completely solidified into something else. Something cold. Something unbreakable.
"Does my father have the security logs from the central precinct for next Thursday?" I asked.
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"He does," Rebecca said. "He’s personally coordinating the security detail for the courthouse. Pendelton thinks he’s going to turn the courtroom into a media circus for the evening news. He has no idea that your father has already invited the federal district attorney to sit in the front row."
"Good," I said, standing up and smoothing down the fabric of my maternity dress. "Let’s make sure Chelsea wears her best blue blouse. It’s going to be the last thing she chooses for herself for a very long time."
