“You have no right to block our accounts,” she said, slamming her designer handbag onto the glass conference table near the door.

The metal clasp made a loud, ringing sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged office.

“The court hasn’t ruled on anything yet,” she said, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “You cannot lock me out.”

“This is Whitaker Construction, Claire,” my father said. “These are corporate accounts.”

The lawyer stepped forward, clearing his throat.

“Mr. Whitaker, I am Arthur Vance,” the man said, extending a hand that my father ignored. “We are here to resolve this before it becomes an ugly public matter.”

“It became public the moment your client decided to use company funds for personal luxury,” Ethan said, his voice cold.

Claire glared at Ethan.

“Keep out of this, Ethan,” she spat. “This is between my husband and me.”

“Ethan is the Chief Operating Officer,” my father said. “Everything that happens in this building concerns him.”

My mother took two steps closer to the desk, her manicured fingers curling into fists.

She looked pale, despite her heavy makeup.