Rebecca didn’t waste a millisecond. She whipped out her phone and dialed the police. “Detective Miller? It’s Rebecca Thorne. We need to escalate this file immediately. I am officially requesting the DA’s Special Prosecutions unit. We are no longer just looking at domestic battery. We have evidence of felony wire fraud, mass forgery, and what strongly appears to be a premeditated conspiracy to commit murder.”
We were finally ahead of them. And I was going to ensure we stayed there until they were utterly destroyed.
Chapter 4: Striking the Match
Two weeks later, the Los Angeles family court was a suffocating theater of tension for the plenary protective order hearing.
Spencer strutted through the heavy double doors wearing a bespoke charcoal suit, flanked by a legal team that cost more per hour than most people make in a month. He wore the practiced, melancholic mask of a deeply misunderstood man. Sitting in the gallery directly behind him was Constance. She was draped in severe black, clutching an ornate silver rosary like it was a theatrical prop in a Greek tragedy. Two senior partners from Spencer’s firm, including Richard Montgomery, sat nearby.
The message was clear, arrogant, and silent: Institutional power has arrived. Bow down.
I felt a cold smile touch the corners of my mouth. Good. Let power take a seat on the public record and watch itself bleed.
Madeline sat at the petitioner’s table beside Rebecca, her spine straight, her face an unreadable mask of pale determination. I sat in the front row of the gallery, positioning myself so close behind her that she could feel the heat radiating from my presence.
