“No,” I had told her, looking straight into her cold blue eyes.

“I don’t make backroom deals with the woman sleeping with my husband.”

Instead, I had Sarah draft an emergency trial subpoena duces tecum, served directly to the IT department by a sheriff’s deputy the next morning.

Sloane had been forced to turn over the master backup drive under penalty of perjury, leaving her with nothing to leverage.

Now, Sloane looked down at the linoleum floor, refusing to meet Gavin’s furious, darting gaze.

“Mr. Harrison,” Judge Beckett said, her eyes fixed on the screen. “Open the folder labeled *Offshore_Transfers_2024*.”

The clerk’s mouse clicked twice.

A spreadsheet filled the monitor, showing rows of numbers, wire routing codes, and bank names in the Cayman Islands.

“What am I looking at here, Ms. Jenkins?” the judge asked.

“These are the monthly transfers of Rourke Regional Mobility’s gross revenue,” Sarah said.

“None of these accounts were disclosed in the defendant’s sworn financial affidavits.”

“More importantly, Your Honor, please look at column F.”

The column was labeled *Tax_Withholding_Exemption_Status*.

Every single entry was marked with a zero.