Rebirth of Vengeance

CHAPTER 7 — Divorce Is Just the Beginning

“You’re asking for assets you don’t legally control.”

The attorney’s tone was careful. Too careful. Across the table, she sat perfectly straight, hands folded, face composed in a serene enough expression to fool strangers.

The glass walls of the conference room reflected her confidence in her like a crown. He leaned back in his chair. “No,” he said. “I’m asking for assets I built.”

She laughed softly. “You cooked dinners.”

“I structured cash flow,” he replied. “I negotiated early vendor contracts. I rewrote the first investor deck when your English wasn’t good enough to sell ambition.”

Her smile twitched. “That was informal support,” her attorney cut in. “There’s no documentation.”

“There is,” he said calmly.

He slid a folder across the table. Not thick. Precise. Emails. Drafts. Timestamped revisions. Wireframes. A signed NDA she’d forgotten she'd made him sign, one that listed him as a Strategic Consultant.

Her attorney flipped pages, frowning deeper with each turn. “You never told me about this,” she snapped.

“You never asked,” he replied.

Her gaze sharpened. “You planned this.”

“No,” he said. “You erased me. I just kept copies.”

The room went quiet. Her attorney cleared his throat. “We’ll need time to review.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said. “The market won’t.”

She shot him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

He didn’t deny it. Divorce filings were entered into the system within the hour. By evening, the story shifted. CEO Faces Explosive Divorce Amid IPO Turmoil.

Questions Raised About Early Company Contributions. Board Tensions Mount. Her phone rang nonstop. He didn’t.

That worried him. He sat alone in his temporary, furnished, forgettable apartment, watching the city lights blink like a nervous system.

A glass of water sat untouched on the table. He’d learned not to drink when his hands felt too steady. His laptop chimed—a message from an old email address.

Harris: Didn’t expect to hear from you again.

He typed back.

Him: I didn’t expect you to lie under oath.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Harris: You’re playing a dangerous game.

Him: You already did. I’m just correcting the score.

No reply. He closed the laptop. Across town, she stood in a hospital corridor that smelled like antiseptic and regret.

Evan lay in bed, face swollen, jaw wired, eyes burning with something feral. “You promised me,” he slurred.

“I didn’t promise you anything,” she said coldly.

“You said he was done.”

“He was,” she snapped. “You escalated.”

Evan laughed painfully. “He knew about the cameras.”

Her spine stiffened. “You talked too much.”

“You said it didn’t matter.”

“It didn’t,” she said. “Until now.”

Evan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re scared.”

“Be quiet.”

“He’s not normal,” Evan whispered. “He’s not acting like a man who lost.”

She turned away. “Focus on recovery.”

“You think he’ll stop?” Evan said. “You think this is about me?”

She paused at the door. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

But the words rang hollow even to her. The next day, the board met without her. Officially, it was about optics. Unofficially, it was about survival.

Two directors called him separately. Neither left voicemails. He returned both calls. “I don’t want a seat,” he told the first.

“I don’t want revenge,” he told the second.

“What do you want?” they both asked.

“Accuracy,” he said. “And silence.”

They agreed to neither. They offered something else. Information. By the third night, he felt it. The pressure. The sense that the air around him had thickened, like eyes pressed too close to glass.

He noticed the same car parked across the street twice. Not suspicious. Just… present. He changed his route home. Footsteps adjusted with his.

He stopped at a café and sat near the window. The car idled. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, calm, composed. Ready. “You’re not subtle,” he murmured.

The barista glanced over. “Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

He finished his coffee and left. That night, he didn’t sleep. He stood by the window instead, watching shadows move where they shouldn’t. At 2:17 a.m., his phone vibrated.

Unknown number. One message. ''You weren’t supposed to come back.''

His pulse slowed. Not fear. Recognition. “So,” he whispered to the dark. “You finally noticed.”

He deleted the message. Then he smiled. Because whoever was watching him now was already too late.