“They list the custody of the accounts and our demand for the house.”

I stared at the black ink, the legal jargon blurring slightly before my eyes.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

I took the pen she offered, my right hand shaking slightly as I gripped it.

Signing my name was slow, my injured left arm acting as a heavy, useless weight on the table.

“Now, about Friday night,” Annika said, leaning closer.

“The process server’s name is Arthur.”

“He will arrive at your front door at exactly eight-thirty.”

“That is when the main course is served,” I said.

“Derek will be at the head of the dining table, showing off for his boss.”

“Arthur will ask for him by name, hand him the envelope in front of everyone, and walk out,” Annika said.

“The look on his face will be worth every penny of my retainer.”

“But we need to ensure he doesn’t try to bury us in court afterward,” I said.

“He has a team of corporate lawyers who will do whatever he asks.”

Annika’s eyes narrowed.