I pulled out my phone with my right hand and searched for premium local services.

First, I booked a team of elite cleaners who promised a deep scrub in under four hours.

Then, I called Chef Laura’s catering service.

Laura answered on the second ring, her voice crisp and professional.

“I need a full-service dinner for forty people this Friday,” I told her.

“We usually require two weeks’ notice for an event of that size, ma’am,” she said.

“I will pay triple your standard rate,” I said, my voice steady despite the throbbing in my arm.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.

“What is the menu?” she asked.

“Something elegant,” I said. “A five-course tasting menu.”

“And I need your staff to handle everything from setup to cleanup.”

“I won’t be able to help much in the kitchen.”

“We can accommodate that,” Laura said. “I will send over the menu options and the contract tonight.”

After I hung up, I looked at the contact list on my phone.

I scrolled down to a name listed only as “A. Vance.”

I tapped the icon.

Annika answered immediately on her private line.

“Monica,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” I said, looking toward the stairs to make sure Derek wasn’t waking up.

“He broke my arm tonight.”

“Did you go to the hospital?” Annika asked, her tone shifting to a sharp, legal focus.

“Did they document it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have the medical report and the discharge papers.”

“Good,” she said. “Keep those safe. We will use them.”

“What about the dinner party?”

“It’s still happening,” I said. “He wants forty people here on Friday evening.”

“That might work to our advantage,” Annika said.

“We need to meet tomorrow to sign the final divorce paperwork.”

“I have to plan the delivery carefully.”