“No,” Harrison replied. “None of it is yours. The asset was never marital, and the proceeds were transferred into a protected offshore structure you can’t touch. She is gone, Ethan. Legally and financially. You have no claim.”
The phone slipped from his hand.
Kayla had heard enough.
The softness vanished from her face. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw not a powerful man, but a stranded one.
“So where are we supposed to live?” she demanded. “You said we were living here.”
Ethan buried his face in his hands, mumbling about hotels, accountants, damage control.
Kayla picked up the designer suitcase he had bought her and stepped into the elevator.
“Call me when you fix your life,” she said.
Then she left him there alone with his garbage bags and the silence of a building he thought he owned.
In that hallway, surrounded by the wreckage of his own arrogance, Ethan finally understood that the 6:14 a.m. message he had sent to humiliate me had cost him more than any deal he had ever lost.
Six months later, the balance between our lives had become almost poetic.