Natalie led me into a small conference room and slid her laptop toward me. “Okay,” she said, voice brisk. “We’re pulling everything into one timeline. County office incident included. And we need counsel.”
“I already called a real estate attorney,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “He filed the marital notice.”
Natalie nodded. “Good. Now you need divorce counsel,” she said. “Not tomorrow. Today.”
The word divorce still tasted like something I couldn’t swallow.
But the truth was, Ethan had already divorced me in his head. He’d just been waiting to make it legal after he stripped me first.
Natalie made one call, then another. Within an hour, I was sitting across from a family-law attorney named Judith Kane who looked like she’d never lost an argument in her life.
She didn’t offer sympathy first. She offered clarity.
“Tell me exactly what you heard,” Judith said, pen poised.
I did.
Timeline. Friday. Money moved. Deed. Documents. Proof.
Judith didn’t interrupt. She only asked questions that made the story sharper, cleaner.
“Did you see his phone screen?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “J. Morgan.”
“Did you get the bank alert documentation?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “The bank representative printed it.”
“Did you obtain the quitclaim draft?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, sliding the folder across the table.
Judith flipped through it, expression tightening. “He was going to transfer interest to an LLC,” she said, voice flat. “And he registered that LLC himself.”
“Yes.”
Judith set the papers down carefully. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s what’s going to happen next: he’s going to deny, minimize, and weaponize your tone. He’ll claim you’re paranoid. He’ll claim you’re emotional. He’ll claim you misheard.”
I swallowed. “He already started,” I said. “He’s been ‘sick’ all week.”
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