He’d never be with you. Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror?

The rustle of heavy bond paper sounded deafening against the background of the outdoor cocktail party. Jordan’s eyes darted across rows of forensic accounting data, shell company registrations, and wire transfer logs that mapped a direct line from his personal accounts straight to the offshore concealment operations he thought he had buried forever. Every number represented a deliberate choice, a signature forged in haste, a betrayal executed with corporate coldness.

"This is impossible," Jordan muttered, his breath hitching in his throat. He looked up, his gaze frantically searching Mark’s face for a sign of a bluff, a forged signature, anything that could invalidate the nightmare sitting in his hands. "You don't understand how these entities work. Anyone could have fabricated this."

Mark remained entirely still, his hands resting casually in the pockets of his green shirt. "Could they?" he asked softly. "Including the notary public’s seal from the Caymans? Including the digital fingerprint of your personal assistant, who walked into my office three days ago with a conscience she could no longer live without?"

Elena shifted the baby slightly in her arms, the white blanket rustling softly. She hadn't taken her eyes off Jordan for a single second. The distance between them on the patio felt less like physical space and more like an unbridgeable canyon formed by years of systematic psychological erosion. She remembered the nights spent staring at the ceiling, the quiet gasping for air after an argument that left her broken on the hardwood floor, and the terrifying realization that if she did not find a way out, her child would inherit a legacy of fear.

"She didn't just bring documents, Jordan," Elena said, her tone level and unyielding. "She brought a digital mirror. Every threat, every hidden bank statement, every closed-door transaction where you promised to ruin anyone who stood in your way."

Jordan slammed the folder shut, the motion jerky and uncoordinated. The sound made several guests a few yards away turn their heads, offering polite, confused smiles before returning to their champagne. Jordan forced a tight, hideous grin back at them, a mask of desperate normalcy that slipped the moment he turned back to the table.

"Keep your voice down," Jordan hissed, leaning across the glass table until his face was inches from Mark’s. "What do you want? Is it money? Do you want a buyout? Name your price."