Chapter 2 - The Secret Empire Behind the Drawing Desk**
The diagnosis had come down like a freight train: acute autoimmune hepatitis complicated by severe systemic inflammation. One morning I woke up unable to lift my arms from the mattress; twenty-four hours later, I was hooked up to monitors in a sterile ICU room, fighting for my liver and my life.
Mark visited me twice during my first week in the hospital. Both times, he checked his watch every three minutes, complaining about traffic on the interstate and how hard it was to manage his sales quotas while running back and forth to "help out" at Dana’s house since Nathan was traveling. By week two, the visits stopped entirely. He called once every few days, his voice clipped and impatient, asking when I would be discharged so he wouldn't have to keep ordering takeout.
While my body fought the heavy doses of immunosuppressants and steroids, my mind remained crystal clear. I watched the nurses, listened to the rhythmic beep of the IV pumps, and realized that my twenty-two-year marriage hadn't just withered—it had rotted from the inside out while I was too busy building books to notice. Mark hadn't just checked out of my life; he had checked into Dana's long before my health crisis made it convenient for him to tear off the mask.
And now, sitting in that sterile hospital bed, he had walked in with my stepsister—the woman who had spent our entire lives stealing whatever caught my eye—and casually demanded three thousand dollars a month in temporary alimony.
On the thirty-second day of my hospital stay, my attorney, Marcus Vance, walked into my room carrying a thick leather briefcase. Marcus was a sharp, silver-haired corporate lawyer from Chicago whom my father had retained years ago to set up my literary LLC and manage my intellectual property portfolio.
He pulled up a chair beside my bed, looking grim as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.
"Well, Evelyn," Marcus said, placing a manila folder on my blanket. "I received a formal letter of representation this morning from Ronald Gable, the pit-bull divorce lawyer your husband hired. They're moving fast."
I managed a dry, humorless smile, pulling myself up slightly against the pillows. "Let me guess, Marcus. They're asking for the moon, the stars, and half my imaginary children's book royalties."
Marcus flipped open the folder. "They are demanding a seventy-thirty split of all marital assets, immediate occupancy of your personal residence in Raleigh, health insurance continuation, and three thousand dollars a month in temporary spousal support, citing your 'lucrative independent author income' as community property."
I let out a soft chuckle that turned into a cough. "Community property? Every cent of my LLC revenue goes into a segregated trust established before we bought the house. And as for my income being a 'little drawing hobby,' Mark has legally maintained for twenty years that my earnings are negligible pin money."
Marcus smiled, a slow, predatory grin that I knew all too well. "Oh, they are about to receive a masterclass in copyright law and asset tracing. When Gable's office filed for temporary support, they included a mandatory financial disclosure subpoena requiring a full accounting of your business accounts. They assumed you made fifty or sixty grand a year self-publishing on Amazon."
"And what do the actual books show?" I asked quietly.
Marcus closed the folder and looked me dead in the eye. "Evelyn, last year alone, The Whispering Woods franchise grossed four point eight million dollars in global royalties, subsidiary rights, and streaming licensing fees. Your LLC currently holds over twelve million dollars in liquid cash, municipal bonds, and real estate holdings—none of which Mark contributed a single dime toward."
I stared at the white ceiling tiles. Twelve million dollars. And Mark thought he was going to walk away with three grand a month to fund his domestic life with my stepsister.
"Tell me, Marcus," I whispered, my voice hardening. "What happens when they cross the discovery deadline and realize what I actually own?"
May you like
"They won't just lose the alimony suit," Marcus replied smoothly, packing his papers back into his briefcase. "They're going to realize they just kicked a sleeping tiger. Leave everything to me. You just focus on getting your liver numbers down so we can get you out of this hospital. Because when the hammer drops, the shockwaves are going to rattle the entire state of North Carolina."
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