Chapter 2 - The Ingredients of Revenge
By sunrise, the pain medication from the hospital had worn off, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache that radiated from my fingers to my jaw.
Derek left for his morning golf game at seven-thirty, leaving me alone in our four-thousand-square-foot suburban estate. He didn't ask if I needed water, didn't offer to carry the heavy Dutch ovens out of the pantry, and didn't even glance at my cast as he zipped up his leather jacket.
"Make sure the silver is polished," he ordered from the doorway before heading to his Mercedes. "My mother inspects the butter knives."
The moment his car pulled out of the driveway, I didn't head to the kitchen. I went straight into Derek’s locked private study.
For six years, Derek had kept a heavy oak desk in the corner of the room, fitted with a biometric lock that required his thumbprint. He believed he was the smartest man in every room he entered. What he didn't know was that three weeks ago, while he was passed out drunk after a firm celebration, I had pressed his thumb against the sensor and registered my own index finger into the system memory.
The lock clicked open with a soft, mechanical beep.
Inside the bottom drawer sat three thick, black leather binders labeled Vanguard Holdings.
To the rest of the world, Derek was a brilliant corporate attorney specializing in tax compliance. To me, after months of quiet observation, he was something far more dangerous. The binders contained complete records of offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, shell corporations registered under his mother’s maiden name, and systematic wire transfers embezzling millions from his firm’s high-profile client trust accounts—including Michael Stanton's private estate fund.
Derek had been skimming off the firm for four years to fund his private investment gambles and his lavish lifestyle. But the binders held something even more toxic.
At the back of the third binder were printed transcripts of private text messages and hidden camera stills from an apartment downtown. Derek hadn't just been stealing from his partners; he had been conducting an affair with Michael Stanton’s thirty-two-year-old wife, Julianna, for over eighteen months.
They had used the firm's private retreat properties to meet, billing the expenses back to Stanton’s personal account under the label of "legal retainer fees."
My hands didn't shake as I pulled out my phone. With my left hand, I carefully took high-resolution photos of every single ledger page, every bank transfer slip, every explicit text transcript, and every photograph.
I uploaded the files to an encrypted cloud drive managed by a prominent forensic accounting firm in the city—a firm I had hired two weeks prior using cash I had slowly saved from my household budget.
Then, I picked up the landline phone and placed a call to Evelyn, the nurse from the hospital emergency room.
"Evelyn?" I said softly into the receiver. "It's Monica Bennett. I'm ready to file the report now. But I need you to connect me directly to Detective Miller in the Domestic Violence unit."
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"I'm so glad you called, Monica," Evelyn replied, her warm voice dripping with relief. "Detective Miller is standing right here. He's been waiting for your call."
"Tell him to bring two squad cars to 1422 Highland Drive at precisely eight-fifteen tonight," I instructed, my eyes locked on the framed portrait of Derek smiling arrogantly on his desk. "Tell him the party will just be getting to dessert."
