Chapter 2 - The Grocery Run

At 1:17 in the morning, Darcy’s dining table no longer looked like furniture.

It looked like a command center.

Sloan’s laptop sat open beside printed bank statements, mortgage records, screenshots, photographs of the red marks on her wrist and scalp, and a legal pad filled with Darcy’s handwriting.

Maya worked at one end of the table with two monitors.

Darcy worked at the other.

Sloan sat between them wearing one of Darcy’s old college sweatshirts and holding coffee she had forgotten to drink.

Darcy tapped the page in front of her.

“Let’s start with the condo.”

“I bought it nine months before Julian and I got married.”

“Title?”

“My name only.”

“Mortgage?”

“My name only.”

“Payments?”

“From my salary account.”

“Has Julian ever contributed directly?”

“Not to the mortgage.”

“Utilities?”

“Sometimes. Maybe three or four bills a year.”

Darcy looked at Maya.

“Traceability?”

Maya nodded.

“If the statements match what she’s saying, very good.”

Sloan rubbed her forehead.

“I don’t want to fight over every lamp and spoon, Darcy. I just want out.”

“I know. But Julian already threatened to put you out of property titled solely in your name. That tells me he either doesn’t understand the paperwork or he believes he has leverage we haven’t found yet.”

Maya looked up.

“People who live comfortably on someone else’s income usually understand more about money than they pretend.”

Sloan stared at her.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not assuming Julian is merely lazy.”

Darcy slid another page toward Sloan.

“Joint account.”

Sloan sighed.

“We use it for household expenses.”

“How much do you deposit?”

“Usually eight thousand a month.”

“How much does Julian?”

“Whatever he can. Two thousand. Sometimes less.”

Maya turned one monitor toward them.

“I imported the last eighteen months.”

Rows of transactions filled the screen.

Sloan frowned.

“What am I looking at?”

“Transfers.”

“To whom?”

Maya highlighted a repeated name.

FMC CONSULTING.

Sloan leaned closer.

“I don’t know that company.”

Darcy said nothing.

Maya clicked.

“Fiona Mercer Consulting LLC.”

Sloan’s head lifted.

“What?”

“Registered eighteen months ago. Mailing address is a private box in River North.”

Sloan stared at the transactions.

“Those are household transfers.”

“No,” Maya said. “Those are payments from your joint account to Fiona’s company.”

Sloan counted quickly.

“Two thousand. Four thousand. Six thousand.”

“And sometimes twelve,” Maya said.

“How much total?”

“I’m not giving you a final number until I reconcile everything. Preliminary total is ninety-three thousand four hundred dollars.”

The room went silent.

Sloan looked at the figures again.

“That can’t be right.”

Darcy’s voice was quiet.

“Why?”

“Because Fiona says she uses her authorized card for groceries, household supplies, gifts. I knew I was paying for more than I should, but not this.”

Maya scrolled.

“The card spending is separate.”

Sloan closed her eyes.

For five years she had told herself she was generous.

Generous wives did not keep score.

Generous daughters-in-law did not embarrass family members over bills.

Generous people absorbed discomfort.

Now the word felt less noble.

It felt useful to the wrong people.

Darcy pushed the coffee closer.

“Drink.”

Sloan obeyed.

Her phone buzzed.

JULIAN: If you are not back in thirty minutes, don’t bother coming back.

Darcy held out her hand.

Sloan passed her the phone.

Darcy read the message and handed it to Maya.

Maya captured it.

Then another message arrived.

FIONA: The caterer I recommended was unavailable. This is why I told you to plan ahead. Do not ruin my birthday.

Sloan laughed.

It came out sharp and strange.

Darcy raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“She thinks I’m shopping.”

“You are.”

“At one thirty in the morning?”

Darcy smiled.

“For a very special menu.”

Maya looked between them.

“What exactly are you planning?”

Darcy turned to Sloan.

“That depends. Do you want to disappear quietly until the hearing, or do you want to make sure Julian understands before noon that the rules have changed?”

Sloan thought about Fiona sitting at the table with tea while Julian dragged her by the hair.

“I want him to understand.”

“Good.”

Darcy opened her laptop.

“I have a judge available for emergency review at eight thirty. We can request temporary exclusive possession based on the lockout and physical aggression, no-contact provisions, and preservation of marital and joint assets. The financial restraint may take longer depending on what we can show, but the threats and these transfers help.”

Sloan looked at her.

“And the birthday?”

“You told Fiona you would deliver a feast.”

“I did.”

“So deliver one.”

Maya smiled for the first time.

“Oh.”

Sloan looked at both women.

“What are you thinking?”

Darcy’s smile widened.

“Professional catering.”

Sloan almost objected.

Then she remembered the hidden debit card.

“No.”

Darcy paused.

“No?”

“I’m not spending thousands to give Fiona a beautiful party after this.”

“Not for Fiona.”

Sloan studied her.

Darcy continued.

“You’re buying yourself an audience.”

By three in the morning, Sloan understood the plan.

A reputable catering company would deliver sixty small heritage-inspired dishes at eleven thirty.

Darcy insisted on real food.

“No poisoned joke dishes. No empty plates. No theatrics that can be used to paint you as unstable.”

“Then where is the revenge?”

“The process server.”

Sloan finally smiled.

Darcy explained that if the emergency order was granted, Julian could be served at the condo in front of witnesses. The process server would remain professional. A building security supervisor would accompany him if required.

“No screaming,” Darcy said. “No throwing papers. We stay boring.”

“Boring sounds disappointing.”

“Boring wins cases.”

Maya added, “And if Fiona has invited fifty people, boring will still be humiliating.”

At four, Sloan called a caterer she trusted from work.

She was a senior finance director for a restaurant group, and after fourteen years in hospitality she knew exactly who could solve impossible food problems without asking foolish questions.

The owner, Mateo Ruiz, answered sleepily.

“Sloan? Is everything okay?”

“I need a legal miracle disguised as lunch.”

He was silent.

“Say that again.”

“I need sixty distinct small dishes delivered to my condo at eleven thirty.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Then someone else is.”

Despite herself, Sloan laughed.

Mateo listened as she explained only the safe part: a sixtieth birthday, an impossible demand, and a need for professional service.

“How many guests?”

“Forty to sixty.”

“Dietary restrictions?”

“I’ll send what I know.”

“Budget?”

Sloan looked at Darcy.

Darcy shook her head and mouthed, Reasonable.

“Reasonable but not cheap.”

Mateo groaned.

“You are lucky I owe you for fixing my payroll disaster.”

“You do.”

“I can do sixty tasting portions if you let me interpret ‘dish’ generously.”

“Do it.”

“And Sloan?”

“Yes?”

“If this is one of those stories where your mother-in-law hates the cilantro garnish, I’m resigning from friendship.”

“This story is much worse.”

Mateo’s voice sharpened.

“You safe?”

Sloan hesitated.

“I am now.”

“Then send the address details. I’ll handle the food.”

After the call, Darcy looked at her.

“That man is loyal.”

“He is.”

“Keep people like that.”

The sentence landed harder than Darcy intended.

Sloan looked away.

By sunrise, Maya had found more.

Fiona’s consulting company had received repeated transfers.

Julian had opened three credit cards Sloan did not recognize, though none appeared in her name.

There were also payments from a trust account called MERCER FAMILY INCOME TRUST.

Maya frowned at the screen.

“Did you know Julian has a trust?”

Sloan looked up quickly.

“What trust?”

Darcy stopped typing.

Maya rotated the laptop.

Monthly deposits entered an account in Julian’s name.

Seven thousand eight hundred dollars.

Sometimes more.

Sloan stared.

“He told me his father left debts.”

“Maybe he did,” Maya said. “But somebody has been paying Julian almost eight thousand dollars a month for at least the last eighteen months.”

Sloan felt something cold move through her chest.

“He tells me he can’t contribute because freelance branding is unpredictable.”

Maya nodded.

“His freelance work may be unpredictable. His trust income isn’t.”

Darcy leaned back.

“So while Sloan pays the mortgage and funds Fiona, Julian hides nearly a hundred thousand a year.”

“Looks that way.”

Sloan stood abruptly.

“I need air.”

She walked to the windows.

Lake Michigan was turning gray under the early morning sky.

Behind her, Darcy said, “Sloan.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Darcy let the silence sit.

Finally Sloan turned.

“I spent five years feeling guilty because he said his career stalled after marrying me.”

Darcy’s expression softened.

“He said you intimidated clients.”

“Yes.”

“Because you earned more?”

“Yes.”

“He told you that?”

“Every time I asked why he wasn’t working more.”

Maya said quietly, “Hidden income often matters as much emotionally as financially. It proves the story you were given wasn’t real.”

Sloan looked at the statements.

“What else is hidden?”

“We’re going to find out,” Darcy said.

At eight fifteen, Darcy changed into a navy suit.

Sloan changed into clothes Maya had bought from an all-night pharmacy and department store kiosk in the underground concourse.

“Not glamorous,” Maya said.

“I’ve had enough glamour for one night.”

At eight thirty, Darcy appeared by video before a judge assigned to emergency family matters.

Sloan listened from another room while Darcy presented the recording, photographs, threats, title information, and financial concerns.

At nine twelve, Darcy came back.

Sloan stood.

“Well?”

“Temporary order of protection granted through the next hearing.”

Sloan exhaled.

Darcy continued.

“Temporary exclusive possession of the condo granted to you. Julian is ordered not to interfere with your access or contact you except through counsel. The judge also entered a limited financial preservation order on the joint account pending full hearing.”

Maya nodded.

“Good.”

Sloan whispered, “He has to leave?”

“The order directs him to vacate upon service. Building security and police can enforce if necessary.”

Sloan sat down.

For the first time all night, her hands stopped shaking.

Darcy crouched in front of her.

“You understand this is temporary.”

“I know.”

“He will fight it.”

“I know.”

“He will say you exaggerated.”

“I know.”

“Fiona will say worse.”

Sloan looked at her.

“I know.”

Darcy stood.

“Then we’re ready.”

At ten thirty, Mateo texted a photograph.

Sixty numbered containers lined stainless-steel tables.

MATEO: Your ridiculous feast exists. I hate you.

Sloan showed Darcy.

Darcy smiled.

“At least one promise will be kept today.”

At eleven fifteen, a process server named Everett Cole arrived in a gray suit with a leather folder.

He reviewed the order.

“No confrontation from you,” he told Sloan.

“I’m not going inside.”

“Good.”

Darcy said, “We’ll wait across the street.”

At eleven twenty-eight, Mateo’s catering vans turned onto Sloan’s block.

Through the tracking link, Sloan watched them pull into the loading area.

Her phone began to ring.

Fiona.

Sloan did not answer.

Then Julian.

She let it ring.

A text arrived.

FIONA: Finally. They’re bringing everything upstairs. Come home and change before the guests arrive.

Sloan read it twice.

Home.

As though nothing had happened.

As though the deadbolt had never turned.

Another message came.

JULIAN: We’ll talk about last night after the party. Do not make a scene.

Darcy looked over Sloan’s shoulder.

“He still thinks you’re coming back to serve.”

Sloan locked the phone.

“No.”

At eleven fifty-two, Everett entered the building.

At eleven fifty-eight, the caterer texted that all sixty dishes had been arranged.

At noon exactly, Sloan’s phone rang again.

This time it was Luis from the front desk.

“Mrs. Mercer?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a gentleman here serving paperwork to your husband.”

Sloan looked at Darcy.

“Is security present?”

“Yes. Mr. Mercer is very upset.”

In the background, Sloan heard Julian shouting.

“This is my home!”

Then Fiona’s voice.

“Where is Sloan?”

Luis lowered his voice.

“There are a lot of guests here.”

Sloan closed her eyes.

Sixty dishes.

Forty-seven guests.

One process server.

Darcy whispered, “Happy Jubilee.”

Luis spoke again.

“Mrs. Mercer?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Mercer has been ordered to leave.”

Sloan opened her eyes.

Across the street, sunlight reflected off the condo windows.

“What is he doing?”

Luis paused.

Then Sloan heard Julian clearly.

“She planned this!”

Fiona screamed something about betrayal.

Another voice asked what was happening.

Then Everett’s calm voice rose above them.

“Sir, you have been served. Please read the order.”

Sloan did not smile.

Not yet.

Then Maya’s phone buzzed.

She looked at the screen.

Her face changed.

Darcy noticed.

“What?”

Maya held up a title-search alert.

“We have a problem.”

Sloan turned.

“What kind?”

Maya’s voice became very quiet.

“Someone filed a deed two months ago adding Julian to the condo.”

Sloan stared at her.

“That’s impossible.”

Maya looked at the document again.

“It has your signature.”

Sloan’s stomach dropped.

“I never signed anything.”

Darcy took the phone.

For several seconds, she said nothing.

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Then she looked at Sloan.

“The birthday party just stopped being the biggest problem.”