Chapter 5 - Serving The Papers
The next morning, I sat in the sleek, glass-walled office of Attorney Richard Sterling.
He plugged my flash drive into his computer and watched the videos in complete silence.
With every clip, his eyebrows raised higher and higher.
When the final video of the tea-throwing incident ended, he leaned back in his leather chair.
"Well, David," Sterling said, steepling his fingers together.
"In my twenty years of practice, I have rarely seen someone dig their own grave quite so perfectly."
"What do you want to do with this?"
"I want her to get absolutely nothing in the divorce," I stated firmly.
"And I want her served at her office, in front of all her colleagues."
Sterling smiled, revealing a row of perfectly white, predatory teeth.
"Consider it done."
"But what about the criminal charges for assault?"
"We hold those," I instructed.
"We use them as leverage during the settlement."
"If she tries to fight me for a single penny, we take the videos to the police."
By noon, the legal paperwork was drafted, printed, and handed to a process server.
Rebecca worked as a high-end real estate agent in a very public, prestigious firm downtown.
She prided herself on her perfect image and her flawless reputation among her wealthy peers.
I parked across the street from her glass-fronted office building, watching from my car.
The process server, a tall man in a sharp suit, walked confidently into the lobby.
Through the massive windows, I could see Rebecca standing in the center of the office, holding a coffee cup.
She was surrounded by her coworkers, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, undoubtedly playing the sobbing victim.
The process server walked straight up to her, interrupting her dramatic performance.
Even from across the street, I could tell the exact moment he spoke her name.
She looked annoyed, then confused, as he handed her the thick manila envelope.
He stepped back and loudly announced, "Rebecca Vance, you have been served."
Every single head in the office turned to stare at her.
Rebecca ripped open the envelope, her eyes scanning the first page.
Her fake tears vanished instantly, replaced by sheer panic and humiliation.
She dropped her coffee cup, shattering it on the marble floor—poetic justice for my mother's mug.
She looked frantically out the window, and for a brief second, our eyes met across the busy street.
I gave her a slow, sarcastic wave.
I put my car in drive and pulled away, leaving her to deal with the public humiliation.
My phone rang exactly three minutes later.
May you like
I let it go to voicemail.
Let her sweat.
