At thirty-three, I sat across from Grant Holloway—the man who’d promised to love me forever—inside a stale mediation office. He twirled his Montblanc pen, treating our seven-year marriage and four-year-old son, Noah, like a corporate spreadsheet.
“Let’s wrap this up, Briana,” he sneered. “You’re just dragging this out for drama.”
I stayed silent. No tears. No anger. Just a quiet, icy resolve.
Grant’s lawyer added insult to injury, labeling me “unemployed by choice,” a decorative wife with nothing to claim. They thought they had me figured out. They were wrong.
I reached into my worn beige tote and slid a cream-colored envelope across the table.
“If it’s nothing,” I said, calm as a judge’s gavel, “then read it.”
Confusion crossed the mediator’s face. Grant smirked, condescending. Then Addison began reading the financial disclosure aloud.
Three months earlier, I had quietly audited our accounts, uncovering hidden transfers and secret investments. I hadn’t just been a stay-at-home mom—I’d been running Grey Slate Solutions LLC, consulting for high-profile clients, and managing a massive, private war chest.
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