His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 82

She had been hurt, yet her husband hadn't even spared her a single glance. All his attention had been entirely consumed by Yelena.

"Back there, when I was going to give him a piece of my mind, why did you stop me?" Chisholm demanded.

Whitley rubbed her temples, exhausted by the night's disastrous turn.

She had stopped him for a reason. Clive was ruthless. If Chisholm got tangled up in this, the Vance family might end up in the crosshairs.

"Chisholm, you know some excellent lawyers, right? Could you connect me with one? I'm filing for divorce."

Chisholm frowned. "You brought up divorce with him, and nothing happened?"

Whitley let out a bitter laugh. "I already handed him the divorce papers. He didn't take them seriously. He just thinks I'm throwing a tantrum."

And it was true.

In the past, whenever she got upset, he would buy her an extravagant gift to coax her back. She used to think he did it because he cared.

Not anymore.

She wasn't going back.

Unwilling to drag this out any longer, Whitley arranged a meeting with a top-tier divorce attorney the very next day.

Marlo Montgomery was highly sought-after. The only reason he agreed to take her case was out of respect for Chisholm.

They met at an exclusive private club.

By the time Whitley arrived, Marlo was already waiting in a private lounge.

"I apologize, I was delayed on the way. Sorry for being late."

Marlo looked up. He possessed a refined, steady elegance. He stood up, offering his hand with a polite, measured tone. "Hello. I'm Marlo Montgomery."

His demeanor was gentlemanly, exuding a quiet, professional confidence.

Whitley shook his hand, and Marlo immediately cut to the chase, wasting no time on pleasantries.

His expertise was obvious; within a few sentences, he had mapped out the critical points of her case.

"Leave all the subsequent proceedings to me," he said. His expression remained calm and detached throughout, not once furrowing his brow, as if taking down one of the city's most powerful men was just another Tuesday.

Seeing his quiet confidence, the knot of anxiety in Whitley's chest finally loosened.

"If there is anything you need from me, please let me know."

"Mhm." Despite his polite tone, Marlo emanated a faint, professional distance, like an invisible barrier keeping everyone at arm's length.

His gaze swept briefly over her bandaged wrist, his voice perfectly even. "Has he ever been physically violent toward you?"

He had been waiting for the right moment to ask, though Whitley hadn't mentioned it during their briefing.

Whitley paused, smoothly pulling her hand back. "No. I just burned myself by accident."

Marlo nodded. "You can tell me any relevant details. A comprehensive set of evidence will be much more advantageous for the filing."

Filing for a contested divorce required meeting specific legal thresholds—proof of an irretrievable breakdown of the marriage, a mandated separation period, or evidence of fault on the other party's side. Everything required solid documentation.

And Whitley had already prepared all of it.

However, given Clive's immense influence, initiating the divorce was bound to be an uphill battle.

But from the moment she resolved to leave, she had braced herself for the fallout. She was never one to sit around waiting for the axe to fall.

Marlo stood up and checked his watch, his voice cool. "I have another appointment. I'll take my leave now. We will be in touch."

Clive absently loosened his collar, his tone flat. "Where is Whitley?"

Zita hesitated before answering quietly, "She hasn't come back yet. She came by late one night a few days ago, rummaged around her room looking for something, and left when she couldn't find it."

He dismissed it easily, not particularly caring about what she had been searching for. He simply chalked it up to a woman's typical dramatic tantrum.

***

The next day.

Because of her injured hand, Whitley couldn't drive. By the time she navigated two separate bus transfers to get to PurePath Biologics, she was late.

The atmosphere was already hostile. Because of the leaked data, she was secretly being accused of plagiarizing core concepts.

The prevailing gossip was that Whitley single-handedly dragged the company down, lacking the actual talent and resorting to stealing others' work.

The moment she walked through the doors, a wave of judgmental, contemptuous stares locked onto her.

Zelda Lockwood, the department head, had a face like thunder. She called her out right in front of the open-plan office. "Everyone has been here for an hour. We were just waiting on you."

"You take a salary from this company, yet you have absolutely zero sense of responsibility."

Whitley kept her voice low. "I apologize. I got held up on the commute."

Zelda's eyes darted to her bandaged wrist, her tone turning even colder.

"If your hand is injured, stay home and rest. Why force yourself to come in just to drag the rest of the team down?"

"Don't think a little injury earns you special treatment. The corporate world doesn't care about your sob stories; it only cares about results."

"The rest of us rely on our actual skills to get things done. Not like some people who coast in on connections and bring nothing but trouble."