Chapter 4 - The War Room at MercerBy noon, the penthouse suite at the Mercer Hotel had been transformed into a command center.
Evelyn Reed sat at the dining table, her silver hair pulled into a flawless chignon, surrounded by three junior associates and stacks of financial ledgers. Clara sat on the sofa, wrapping a warm cashmere blanket around my shoulders while handing me a cup of organic ginger tea.
"You need to eat something, Jackie," Clara murmured gently. "The doctor said your stress levels need to stay down."
"I’m eating," I lied, taking a tiny sip of the tea. My gaze was fixed on Evelyn, who was highlighting passages in a thick legal document.
"Evelyn," I called out softly. "Did the judge sign the temporary order?"
Evelyn looked up over her half-moon reading glasses, a thin, satisfied smile playing on her lips. "Signed, sealed, and served to Blackwell Global’s corporate council twenty minutes ago. As of right now, Ambrose cannot touch a single dollar of your marital funds. He cannot transfer stock, he cannot sell real estate, and he cannot use company assets to cover his personal legal expenses."
"What about the Sterling acquisition?" I asked.
Evelyn’s smile widened. "That’s the beauty of your timing, my dear. Ambrose was supposed to sign the final purchase agreement for Sterling Logistics tomorrow afternoon. But because Sterling Logistics was listed as an entity involved in his personal dissipation of marital assets—specifically, the lease of the townhouse for Miss Victoria Sterling—the board of directors at Blackwell Global has put the vote on hold."
I took a slow breath, feeling the baby kick again.
When I first discovered Ambrose’s affair, my initial reaction had been pure, blinding grief. I had wanted to scream, to smash his expensive scotch collection, to tear his tailored suits to ribbons. But Clara had stopped me. She had reminded me who I was. I wasn't just Ambrose Blackwell’s wife. I was Jacqueline Vance—a woman with a degree in corporate finance from Columbia, a woman who had helped build his empire from the ground up when he was operating out of a tiny two-room office in Midtown.
I knew where every dollar was buried. I knew which shell companies held the deeds to his European villas. I knew his weaknesses because I had spent seven years protecting him from them.
"Has he tried to reach you?" Evelyn asked.
"Thirty-two missed calls on my old phone," I said, looking at the black screen sitting on the coffee table. "Twelve text messages. Five voicemails."
"Delete them without listening," Evelyn instructed sharply. "Ambrose Blackwell is a master negotiator. He will try to use your history, your emotions, and your pregnancy to strip your armor away. You cannot afford to give him an inch."
Right on cue, a heavy knock sounded at the suite’s heavy oak door.
Clara stood up instantly, her eyes flashing with defensive rage. "If that’s him, I’m calling hotel security."
Evelyn motioned for her junior associate to check the peephole. The associate looked back, nodding grimly. "It’s Mr. Blackwell. He’s alone. No security guards."
I stood up slowly, clutching my coat around my stomach. "Let me speak to him."
"Jackie, no," Clara warned, reaching for my arm. "It’s too soon."
"It’s not too soon," I said quietly, looking my sister in the eye. "He needs to understand that the woman he cheated on doesn't exist anymore."
I walked to the door, unlocking the deadbolt with a soft, decisive click. I pulled the door open six inches, leaving the heavy brass security latch engaged.
Ambrose stood in the dimly lit hallway. He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw covered in dark stubble, his expensive suit coat gone. He looked like a man who had been dragged through a storm.
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"Jackie..." he gasped, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. "Thank God. Please... just let me in for five minutes."
"You have two minutes through this door, Ambrose," I said, my voice as smooth and impenetrable as bulletproof glass. "Say what you came to say."
