Chapter 3 - Sledgehammers and DeceptionsI sat at my writing desk, the screen of my laptop casting a pale blue glow over my face. The betrayal was financial, but the physical reality of what Marcus was planning was far worse.
As I sat there, trying to stop the spinning in my head, I noticed Marcus's iPad sitting on the entryway console. In his haste to leave and "manage" me, he had forgotten to pack it. I walked over and tapped the screen. It was unlocked, fully synced to his iCloud account.
A notification popped up from a group chat titled "The Boys."
I opened the thread, and the sheer audacity of what I read made me physically sick.
Marcus: It's done. I told her David's moving in. She started her usual dramatic whining about "her" penthouse, but I shut it down. David: Are you sure she won't throw us out? Sarah is panicking. The kids have already packed their bags. We have literally nowhere else to go, Marc. Marcus: Trust me, she won't do shit. I’ll just gaslight her into thinking she agreed to it weeks ago. Evelyn cares way too much about her public image and her precious book fans to make a scene in the lobby. She's weak.
I stared at the screen, my heart turning to solid block of ice. He wasn't just bringing them over. He had actively planned to manipulate my memory, to make me doubt my own sanity, just to avoid a confrontation. But the messages continued, and the next thread was even more horrifying.
Marcus: The $210k wire cleared. I've already hired the contractor. They’re bringing a demolition crew in next Tuesday while she's in New York for her publisher's gala. We’re going to sledgehammer her private writing studio and tear down the soundproof walls. We can build a drywall maze of three bedrooms for the kids in that space. She can write on the kitchen island for all I care.
He was going to destroy my studio. The one place in the world where I felt safe. The quiet, soundproof room where every single bestseller had been drafted. He was going to bring sledgehammers to the very engine that funded his luxurious lifestyle, without a single conversation, without a single shred of respect.
I closed the iPad and set it back down on the console.
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I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't throw his expensive bourbon glasses against the wall. The anger didn't burn; it froze. It became a sharp, heavy, and perfectly structured plan. Marcus thought I was weak because I avoided conflict. He thought my silence was submission.
He was about to learn the difference between a writer who creates quiet stories, and a writer who knows exactly how to script a tragedy.
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