Chapter 4Divorcing Me Is A Federal Crime

I stopped in my tracks, my eyes narrowing.

Brandon leaned against the doorframe, his face twisting with old, festering malice.

"You think I forgot senior year? You were the anonymous rat who went to the school board when I took care of that scholarship kid. If you hadn't handed over that hallway footage, my father wouldn't have been forced to ship me out of the country to bury the scandal. Sierra would have been mine ten years ago. I spent three years in exile, Mercer, wondering which spineless bastard sold me out—until Sierra finally confessed last month."

He slammed his flat palm against the wall. "Ten years, Sam. I’ve waited ten years to balance the books."

I looked at him, completely unimpressed by the theater.

"I reported you," I said calmly. "Because you beat a defenseless sophomore until his knee was permanently shattered, all because he wouldn't do your homework. You belonged in juvenile detention, not boarding school. If I had to do it again, I’d ensure the police pressed criminal charges instead of letting your father buy the headmaster."

Brandon’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped under his skin. "God, I hate that righteous tone. You think you’re better than me? Let me let you in on a secret: this reunion wasn’t Sierra’s idea. It was mine. I had her drag you out here so I could ruin you in front of everyone who ever mattered."

He snapped his fingers.

The double doors burst open. A dozen private security contractors in tactical cargo pants and tactical vests moved into the room, fanning out with practiced, predatory efficiency. They were private muscle—ex-cons and disgraced private guards hired to intimidate.

I didn't move. I slowly slid my plain silver wedding band off my left ring finger and placed it squarely in the center of the linen table.

"Brandon, this is your final operational exit," I said, my voice quiet enough that the room had to strain to hear. "If you lay a single finger on me, the legal and physical retribution will obliterate you. Even your family's trust fund won't be able to buy you out of the hole you're digging."

A chorus of derisive laughter erupted from the classmates around us.

"Is Mercer seriously trying to threaten the Ward family?"

"The guy works a security shift and thinks he's Jason Bourne!"

"Brandon’s father is golfing with the state attorney general tomorrow morning! Mercer, you’re about to get flushed down the toilet!"

Sierra stepped forward, basking in the security detail's presence. "Sam, look at yourself! You’re pathetic! Anyone in this room could ruin your entire life with a single phone call, and you're still posturing? Get on your knees and apologize to Brandon before they break your legs!"

I took a slow breath, letting the absurdity wash over me.

In high school, I was the class valedictorian. When these people were failing midterms, I ran free study sessions in the library. When their cars broke down in the school lot, I was the one under their hoods with a wrench. And here they were, cheering for a violent sociopath to maim me because he had more money.

They didn't deserve my pity. They didn't even deserve my contempt.

"Last chance, Mercer," Brandon barked, stepping into my personal space, his finger stabbing toward the carpet. "Drop to your knees right now and beg for forgiveness in front of the whole class, or my boys will make sure you leave this ballroom on a stretcher."

Before I could answer, the banquet doors clicked open once more.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal bespoke suit walked in, moving with the unmistakable, lethal grace of a high-tier federal officer.

Brandon blinked, his arrogant expression instantly morphing into panicked servility. He practically tripped over his own feet rushing toward the man.

"Mr. Harris! Luke! What an incredible surprise—what are you doing at the country club tonight?"

The entire room went rigid. In this region, the Harris family was real power—not just real estate money, but generational federal influence. Luke Harris was a legend in administrative circles.

Sierra shrank back toward the window, sensing the shift in gravity.

Only I remained seated, swirling the melted ice in my water glass.

Luke didn't acknowledge Brandon's outstretched hand. His eyes swept across the room with razor precision before settling on the window overlooking the private valet loop.

"Whose black armored Ford sedan is parked in the VIP circle with the federal seal on the dash?"