Thousands of miles away, on the top floor of the Meridian Tower in London, the afternoon sun streamed through the panoramic glass windows.
I sat at a long, polished walnut conference table, finishing a strategic briefing with my executive board.
Miriam walked in, holding a certified manila envelope stamped with an emergency seal from the Cook County Circuit Court.
“Daniel’s public defender just filed an emergency petition,” Miriam said, stepping up to my chair. “He’s begging for spousal maintenance. He claims he was suffering from ‘acute psychological impairment’ and ‘narcissistic cognitive distress’ when he signed the divorce decree and the debt annexes.”
I didn’t open the envelope. I didn’t even look at the signature line.
I picked up the document, slid it directly into the electric cross-cut shredder beside my desk, and watched the paper dissolve into thousands of silent, white ribbons.
“Release his 2019 corporate tax audit to the Department of Justice, Miriam,” I said calmly, adjusting the cuff of my silk blouse. “Let the federal prosecutors explain cognitive distress to him.”
