In Tears, She Signed the Divorce at Christmas Dinner — Nobody Knew Her Father Was a Billionaire
The Hyena
There was a knock at the door. Beatrice smoothed her hair.
“Get that; it’s the lawyer.”
“We can’t afford a lawyer,”
Liam groaned.
“This one is working on contingency,”
Beatrice said with a dark smile.
Liam opened the door. A short, sweating man in an ill-fitting brown suit walked in.
He carried a briefcase that looked like it had been chewed by a dog. This was Marcus Thorne, a man known in the legal underground as “The Hyena.”
He specialized in cases legitimate firms wouldn’t touch.
“Mrs. Sterling,”
Thorne said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Mr. Sterling. I’ve reviewed the case and—”
“And?”
Beatrice asked eagerly.
“It’s tricky,”
Thorne admitted, sitting on the pile of clothes.
“She signed the divorce papers; the foreclosure was legal. Arthur Vance’s team is watertight.”
Beatrice’s face fell.
“So you’re useless?”
“However,”
Thorne raised a finger.
“There is the court of public opinion, and there is the concept of marital fraud and emotional distress. You see, if we can prove that Elena Vance hid her identity maliciously to cause you financial harm, entrapping you into debt while she sat on a fortune, we can sue for damages. Massive damages.”
“She did!”
Liam said.
“She watched us struggle for three years. She could have written a check and saved the firm!”
“Exactly,”
Thorne smiled, revealing yellow teeth.
“We paint her as a sociopath—the billionaire who played poor to torture her husband. We go to the press. We file a lawsuit for fifty million dollars in alimony and emotional damages. Vance Global hates bad PR; they’ll settle just to shut us up.”
Playing the Victim
Beatrice’s eyes lit up.
*”I want her destroyed. I want her name dragged through the mud.”
“We launch tomorrow,”
Thorne said.
“I’ve set up a press conference on the steps of the courthouse. We’ll play the victims: the poor, displaced family kicked out into the snow on Christmas by the heartless heiress.”
The next morning, the media circus began.
Elena was in her father’s office in Manhattan, a glass tower overlooking the city. She was reviewing blueprints for the new housing initiative when her assistant rushed in, looking pale.
“Miss Vance, you need to see this.”
She turned on the wall monitor. There was Beatrice standing in front of a swarm of microphones, wearing her old ragged coat—a calculated costume choice.
Liam stood next to her, looking downcast.
“She lied to us!”
Beatrice sobbed into the cameras, squeezing out fake tears.
“We took her in when she was a nobody. We fed her, we clothed her, and all along she was laughing at us! She watched my son work himself to the bone, knowing she could help, but she chose not to! She is a monster who stole our home on Christmas night!”
The headline on the news ticker read: “Heiress Horror: Did Elena Vance Torture Husband for Sport?”
Proof of Fraud
Arthur Vance walked into the room. He looked furious.
“I’ll have their lawyer disbarred by noon. I’ll sue them for defamation.”
“No,”
Elena said, staring at the screen.
She watched Liam nodding along to his mother’s lies—the man she had once loved, the man she had protected.
“No lawsuits, Dad,”
Elena said calmly.
*”They want a settlement. They want us to pay them to go away.”
“So what do we do?”
Elena stood up. She walked to the safe in the corner of the office, spun the dial, and opened it.
Inside was the hard drive she had copied from Liam’s computer the night she left. But there was something else too: a folder she had received from a private investigator months ago.
Something she had been too afraid to use because she still had hope for her marriage. She pulled out the folder.
“They want to talk about fraud?”
Elena said, tossing the folder onto the desk.
“Let’s talk about fraud.”
“What is this?”
Arthur asked.
“Proof,”
Elena said.
“Proof that the Kensington project wasn’t just failing; it was a Ponzi scheme. Liam and Beatrice weren’t just bad with money, Dad—they were embezzling from their clients to pay for their lifestyle. They were laundering money.”
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up.
“This is a federal crime. This is prison time.”
“Exactly,”
Elena said.
“They want a court battle? I’ll give them one. But it won’t be civil court.”
She picked up the phone.
“Get the car ready and call the District Attorney. Tell him I have a present for him.”
“Where are you going?”
Arthur asked.
“They’re holding a press conference,”
Elena said, buttoning her blazer.
“I think it’s time for a Q&A session.”
A Dramatic Monologue
An hour later, the courthouse steps were packed. Beatrice was in the middle of a dramatic monologue about how Elena had starved them emotionally.
“We only want justice!”
Beatrice cried.
“We want what is fair!”
Suddenly, a murmur went through the crowd. Heads turned, cameras pivoted.
A black limousine pulled up to the curb. Elena stepped out.
She wasn’t hiding; she walked straight toward the microphones, flanked not by security but by the District Attorney and two FBI agents.
Beatrice’s speech died in her throat. Liam looked like he was about to vomit.
Marcus Thorne, the sleazy lawyer, tried to slip away into the crowd, but a police officer blocked his path.
“Elena!”
a reporter shouted.
“Do you have a comment on your husband’s accusations?”
Elena stepped up to the podium. She didn’t shove Beatrice aside; Beatrice stepped back instinctively, terrified by the aura of authority Elena radiated.
“I do have a comment,”
Elena said into the cluster of microphones.
Her voice was clear, ringing out over the plaza.
“My ex-husband and his mother claim I deceived them. They claim financial ruin. But the truth is, the Sterling fortune didn’t disappear because of bad luck; it disappeared because they stole it.”
The crowd gasped. Beatrice screamed.
“Liar!”
Under Arrest
Elena held up the documents.
“These are bank records showing transfers from the Sterling Architecture client accounts directly into Beatrice Sterling’s offshore shell companies. This is evidence of wire fraud, embezzlement, and grand larceny totaling four million dollars.”
She turned to the FBI agents.
“Officers, I believe these are the people you’re looking for.”
The flashbulbs erupted like a thunderstorm. The agents moved in.
“Liam Sterling, Beatrice Sterling,”
the lead agent announced, pulling out handcuffs.
“You are under arrest.”
The trial of the century did not last long. With the evidence Elena had provided—stacks of falsified invoices, offshore account records, and witness testimony from former employees the Sterlings had fired—the defense crumbled.
Six months after that fateful Christmas eviction, Elena sat in the front row of the federal district court. She wore a simple navy dress, her hair loose.
She didn’t need the red dress or the diamonds today; today, she just needed the truth.
On the defense bench, Beatrice Sterling looked like a ghost. Her hair was gray and unkempt, the dye having grown out months ago.
She wore an orange jumpsuit that clashed horribly with her pale, trembling skin. Liam sat next to her, head in his hands, unable to even look at the judge.
“Beatrice Sterling,”
Judge Reynolds boomed, his voice echoing in the silent courtroom.
“for the crimes of wire fraud, grand larceny, and conspiracy to commit money laundering, this court finds you guilty.”
