No Longer Anyone’s Accessory Chapter 22
Outside the courthouse. The California sun beat down, vicious and glaring. I slipped on my sunglasses and was reaching for the car door.
A figure darted in front of me, blocking it.
Ursula.
Her face still carried the tear tracks she hadn’t wiped away, but something entirely different sat in her eyes now. Not grief. Not fear.
It was calculation.
“Corinne.”
Her voice was pitched very low, her tone actually steadier than it had been inside the courtroom.
“Ursula. Move.”
“Just hear me out. One minute.”
She leaned in a fraction closer.
“That patent you mentioned in court. How much was it worth again?”
I looked at her.
“You said in there — ten million dollars. Was that the figure?”
“It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“Nothing to do with me? California is a community property state. You and my son aren’t legally, cleanly divorced yet. Every cent you earn — that’s still community property.”
I took off my sunglasses.
“You’re seriously going to play this game with me?”
“I’m just asking one simple question. If that patent of yours was developed while my Trevor was still your lawful husband — then we’re entitled to half. Fifty-fifty.”
The corner of her mouth curled upward, baring a shrewd, self-satisfied look, certain she held the winning hand.
“I might not follow all that fancy science you Silicon Valley people do. But I do understand California law. The richer you get, the more my son stands to collect. Want a divorce? Fine. That patent money — we’re taking half.”
Corbin stepped out from behind me.
“Mrs. Wexler. You’re quite right. Intellectual property developed during the marriage may indeed, under certain circumstances, be deemed community marital property.”
Ursula’s expression turned even smugger.
“However —”
Corbin gave his glasses a light nudge.
“California law also carries a very clear provision: income and assets acquired after the official date of separation are treated as separate individual property. The day Ms. Whitfield moved out of the California marital residence and formally relocated to London — that is the legally recognized date of separation. The breakthrough advances on her core patent? Every one of them was independently completed after that date.”
“Which means —”
I looked at Ursula.
“Trevor Wexler doesn’t get one single cent of this money.”
Ursula’s face froze solid.
“Wh… what exactly are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is, Ms. Whitfield’s patent is completely, permanently beyond the reach of any member of the Wexler family. You, by contrast, are currently staring down millions of dollars in fraud compensation and restitution judgments.”
Ursula’s mouth opened, closed, opened again.
I put my sunglasses back on.
“Ursula. The single most fatal mistake of your life wasn’t losing that two million gambling on crypto.”
“It was actually believing I’d be as stupid as your son.”
I got into the car. Corbin took the passenger seat. The car pulled onto Highway 101.
In the rearview mirror, Ursula stood rooted to the spot, like a stake yanked loose from whatever had been holding it up.
“Mr. Sloane.”
“Here.”
“On the final judgment. How strong is our position?”
“Ninety percent. They can’t refute a single piece of evidence. And with the forgery already a felony — he has no choice but to accept an unconditional settlement agreement.”
“Good.”
I looked out the window at the Bay Area streetscape streaming backward. These streets were as familiar as the lines on my own palm, yet as foreign as ruins glimpsed in a dream. Three years in this city, head bowed and back bent, waiting on a man who wasn’t worth it.
Now it was time to lift my head.
My phone rang. An email from Dr. Ashcombe.
“Corinne, good news. The German pharma company has raised their offer to forty million. The legal team is reviewing the specific terms.”
Forty million. My share — twelve million.
I set the phone back down on my lap. No wild rush of joy. Just a steady, solid sense of certainty. Like a bullet already gone from the barrel. It would not come back.
