Chapter 2 - The Ambush in the Living Room
Back at the house on Maple Lane, Tucker stood frozen in the center of the spacious, high-ceilinged living room, his boots tracking mud onto the imported Persian rug. The silence of the house was deafening. There was no smell of brewing coffee, no sound of my footsteps in the hallway, no quiet presence to cushion his volatile temper.
Instead, there was a man in a charcoal suit sitting comfortably on our velvet sofa.
“Can I help you?” Tucker barked, his face flushing a dark, mottled red as he slammed his briefcase onto the entryway bench. “Who the hell let you in?”
Arthur Vance, a senior legal courier retained by Rachel’s firm, didn't even stand up. He simply reached into a leather briefcase and pulled out a stack of heavy-bond paper.
“Mr. Tucker Sterling?” Arthur asked smoothly.
“Yes. What is this?”
“You’ve been served,” Arthur said, sliding the documents across the coffee table. “Temporary Restraining Order on behalf of Lydia Sterling. Notice of Emergency Divorce Proceedings. And an immediate freeze order on all joint accounts, business credit lines, and personal lines of credit tied to your social security number.”
Tucker let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, marching across the room. He snatched the papers off the table, his eyes scanning the first page. As his gaze dropped to the second page—the emergency medical reports detailing partial-thickness thermal burns to the face and neck—his smug expression faltered.
“This is bullshit!” Tucker roared, balling the papers up in his fist. “She’s lying! She threw hot water on herself for attention! Where is she? Lydia!”
“She’s not here, Mr. Sterling,” Arthur said calmly, finally standing up and buttoning his jacket. “And if you violate the protective order by calling her phone one more time, you’ll be spending tonight in the county jail.”
Before Tucker could lunge, the front door clicked open.
Melanie stepped into the hallway, balancing two shopping bags from a high-end boutique. Her face beamed with unearned self-satisfaction.
“Tuck, you wouldn't believe the discount I got on the salon mirrors,” Melanie trilled, kicking the door shut behind her. “Oh—are we having guests? Is Lydia still sulking in the kitchen?”
May you like
Tucker slowly turned around, holding the crumpled court documents in his trembling hand. His eyes looked wild, the veins in his temples bulging.
“She’s gone, Melanie,” Tucker whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of rage and sudden, cold dread. “And she didn't just leave. She took everything.”
