Sign the house over to me by Friday, sweetheart, or I’ll have you declared

“Gerald,” I said softly, “before you finish that threat, you should know Thomas recorded every phone call you ever made to him.” His smile flickered. I opened the folder. “He started two years ago. After you told him I was ‘beneath the family’ and offered him fifty thousand dollars to divorce me quietly.” Gerald’s jaw tightened. “That’s not admissible—” “In Connecticut it is. One-party consent. Thomas was the party.” I slid the first page across. “This is a transcript from March. You bragging to him about the offshore account in the Caymans. The one you’ve been hiding from your second wife’s divorce attorney for six years.” His face went the color of old paper. I kept going. “This one is from June. You asking Thomas to help you move two-point-three million through the firm’s escrow account. He said no. You called him a coward.” I laid down a third page. “And this one — this is my favorite — is you telling him that if he ever died first, you’d ‘handle the wife’ and make sure the trust came back to the family. Thomas mailed me a copy of every recording the morning of his surgery. Just in case.” I finally let my voice shake, just a little. “He knew, Gerald. He knew what you were.” I stood up and smoothed my dress. “My attorney already has the originals. The IRS has a courtesy copy scheduled to send Monday at nine a.m. — unless I call it back. The house Thomas left me stays mine. The trust for the twins stays untouched. You will never contact my children again. And you will resign from the firm by Sunday night, citing health.” I picked up the folder. “Don’t make this ugly, Gerald. You’re a senior partner. I’m just a kindergarten teacher.” I paused at the door. “Guess who the judge is going to listen to now.”