“You had choices.” Melanie’s composure cracked. “Every reenlistment was a choice. Every special assignment was a choice. You chose the Rangers over us every single time.”
“And you chose Preston Hayes long before my last deployment,” Brody countered. “Fourteen months ago, to be precise, when you commissioned architectural plans to connect our property with his.”
Rutherford cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.
“Perhaps we should focus on the immediate issue of the trust fund,” he suggested.
“I’ll unfreeze the trust,” Brody said. “On two conditions.”
Melanie’s relief was palpable, but short-lived.
“First, the children stay in Atlanta through the end of the school year with a standard joint custody arrangement. No international relocations without court approval.”
Rutherford nodded.
“That’s reasonable.”
“Second,” Brody said quietly, “I want the truth from you, Melanie. Not about the affair—about what you told the kids.”
Melanie’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You told them I abandoned them,” Brody said. “That I didn’t want to see them.”
“I protected them from being hurt,” Melanie retorted. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Your father might come home in a body bag, but don’t worry’?”
“You lied to them,” Brody said quietly. “Trevor never said he didn’t want to see me. Neither did Amelia. That was your manipulation.”
The room fell silent. Even Rutherford looked troubled.
“I want you to correct the record,” Brody continued. “Tell them the truth. Then we can discuss unfreezing the trust.”
“And if I refuse?” Melanie challenged.
Brody slid another document across the table—the agreement with her father.
“Then this gets filed with the trust administrators,” he said. “Your father made certain promises to me that supersede your prenuptial protections.”
Melanie’s face went white as she read the document.
“Dad would never—”
“Your father respected service and sacrifice,” Brody said. “He also recognized that you inherited his ruthless streak. This was his insurance policy against exactly this scenario.”
After thirty seconds, Melanie nodded once, sharply.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll tell them the truth. But this doesn’t change anything, Brody. I’m still divorcing you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Brody replied coolly.
That evening, Brody received a text from Trevor.
Mom told us what really happened. Why didn’t you call us yourself?
He replied:
I needed to be certain I could be part of your lives before making promises.
Are you back for good now?
Yes. No more deployments.
A long pause, then:
Amelia’s mad at Mom. She’s crying in her room.
Brody’s chest tightened.
Tell her I’ll see you both this weekend. My place.
You have a place?
I will by Saturday.
The next phase was accelerating faster than anticipated. Brody needed to secure a residence and establish stability quickly. But first, he needed to neutralize Preston Hayes.
Harris Bentley’s deeper investigation had uncovered even more concerning patterns. Hayes’s business model involved a sophisticated form of real estate fraud—buying properties through shell companies, inflating their values through cosmetic improvements and manipulated appraisals, then selling them to investment groups that included his romantic partners or their family trusts.
“It’s not technically illegal if everyone knows what they’re investing in,” Harris explained. “But Hayes obscures critical details. Three of his previous romantic partners lost millions before realizing what happened.”
“And Melanie?” Brody asked.
“She’s already invested 1.2 million dollars from her trust in his latest development,” Harris said. “The one in Costa Rica.”
“The property exists?”
“The property exists,” Harris said. “But the permits, infrastructure, and projected values are all smoke and mirrors.”
“So his plan is to get her and her money to Costa Rica, where U.S. financial regulations don’t apply,” Brody said.
“Exactly. And once there, with no support system, she’d be completely dependent on him,” Harris replied.
For the first time, concern for Melanie flickered through Brody’s anger. Despite everything, she was still the mother of his children. She had betrayed him thoroughly, but perhaps she was being manipulated by someone equally skilled at deception.
“I need evidence that will stand up in court,” Brody decided. “And I need to move quickly.”
“What are you planning?” Harris asked.
“To give Preston Hayes exactly what he wants,” Brody replied. “Or at least what he thinks he wants.”
Preston Hayes had built his life on calculated risks and the ability to read people. He prided himself on identifying vulnerabilities and exploiting them with finesse.
So when Broderick Harlo—the inconvenient husband who was supposed to be dispatched through a quick, clean divorce—requested a private meeting at Hayes’s downtown Atlanta office, curiosity overcame caution.
“Mr. Harlo,” Hayes greeted, rising from behind his imposing desk with its view of the city and the U.S. flag flying above the nearby federal building. “This is unexpected.”
Brody took in the man who’d been sleeping with his wife. Tall, athletic, but soft around the edges, with the practiced charm of someone used to getting his way.
“I thought it was time we spoke directly,” Brody said. “Man to man.”
“I appreciate that.” Hayes gestured to a chair. “Though I’m not sure what there is to discuss. Melanie has made her decision.”
“That’s precisely why I’m here,” Brody said, remaining standing. “To acknowledge that decision and propose a solution that benefits everyone.”
Hayes’s expression revealed nothing, but his posture shifted subtly.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“You want Melanie. You want my house. You want my family,” Brody stated flatly. “I’ve accepted that. But the current approach—the lawyers, the court battles—will drag on for months, possibly years. Nobody wins.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
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