The moment my divorce was finalized, I shut down my ex-mother-in-law’s card

An hour passed. The dinner was served, the speeches were made, and the champagne flowed. But I didn't eat. My eyes never left Brandon.

He was pacing near the back exits, arguing furiously on his phone. Margaret sat at the head table, looking completely miserable, clutching her pearls as if they were a life preserver.

Julian's tablet, hidden under the linen tablecloth, suddenly buzzed.

"He's making a move," Julian whispered, sliding the tablet toward me. "My software is monitoring the Cayman account. Someone just initiated a transfer."

"Is he sending it back to Sterling Point?" I asked, a sliver of hope that we could resolve this without a massive federal trial.

Julian's face darkened. "No. He's not returning it."

I looked at the screen. Brandon wasn't surrendering. He was doubling down. He was splitting the twelve million dollars into twenty different offshore accounts in countries with no extradition treaties. He was trying to scatter the money so it could never be traced back to him or his mother.

"He's burning the bridge," Julian said grimly. "Once those transfers clear in ten minutes, the money is gone forever. And Sterling Point will hold you responsible."

I felt a surge of pure adrenaline. I stood up, pushing my chair back sharply. "Where is he?"

"He just went into the VIP lounge on the second floor," Julian said, standing up with me. "He's probably using the secure Wi-Fi up there to bypass the banking firewalls."

"Let's go."

We bypassed the security guards at the stairs—they all knew me as the one who paid their salaries—and pushed through the heavy oak doors of the VIP lounge. The room was dark, illuminated only by the glow of a laptop screen on a coffee table. Brandon was hunched over it, typing frantically.

When he heard the doors open, he snapped his head up.

"Get out!" he screamed, looking like a cornered animal.

"Cancel the transfers, Brandon," I demanded, walking toward him.

"It's too late!" he laughed, a manic, desperate sound. "It's already processing! You wanted to play hardball, Olivia? Fine. The money is gone. And guess whose digital signature is on the original wire fraud? Yours. You're going to jail, and I'll be sipping martinis in Geneva!"

He slammed his hand on the table.

"You're pathetic," I said, shaking my head. "You couldn't even steal successfully without using my name."

"It doesn't matter!" he spat. "I win. The Hawthorne name stays clean. You take the fall. It's what you're good at, right? Being useful." He glared at Julian. "And who the hell are you? Her new bodyguard? You're too late, pal."

Julian didn't look angry. Instead, he looked incredibly amused. He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped a single button.

"Actually, Brandon," Julian said calmly. "I'm a forensic accountant specializing in corporate espionage. And I think you should look at your screen again."

Brandon frowned and looked down at his laptop. The progress bars for the twenty offshore transfers suddenly turned red. An error message flashed across the screen in bold letters:

ACCESS DENIED. FUNDS FROZEN BY FEDERAL INJUNCTION.

"What..." Brandon choked out, tapping the keyboard frantically. "What did you do?!"

"You didn't really think I would let you log into a Cayman account without setting up a digital perimeter, did you?" Julian asked smoothly. "The moment you initiated the transfers, my software flagged the IP address and triggered a freeze protocol I set up with Interpol this afternoon."

Brandon stood up, knocking the laptop onto the floor. "You set me up!" he screamed, lunging at me.

Before he could even take a full step, Julian moved with terrifying speed, grabbing Brandon by the collar and slamming him hard against the wall.

"I wouldn't do that," Julian warned, his voice low and lethal.

I stepped up to Brandon, looking him dead in the eyes. "You thought I was just a living credit card, Brandon? You forgot one important detail."