Chapter 5 - The divorce petition
Rebecca filed my divorce petition forty-eight hours later.
Lucia Sinclair versus Caleb Blackwood.
I insisted on my maiden name appearing everywhere.
Caleb called within nine minutes.
I answered this time.
“Where are you?”
“Safe.”
“Come home.”
“No.”
“Lucia, this has gone far enough.”
“My surgeon said the same thing when you refused to prioritize me.”
Silence.
Then:
“Khloe has a documented condition.”
“She had bruises.”
“I made a judgment call.”
“So did I.”
“You’re divorcing me because of one bad night?”
“No, Caleb. I’m divorcing you because that night finally made every other night impossible to excuse.”
His voice hardened.
“You’ll regret making this public.”
There it was.
Not grief.
Threat.
“Why?”
“Because Blackwood attorneys will destroy you.”
I looked toward Rebecca.
She silently shook her head.
Let him talk.
Caleb continued.
“The penthouse is mine. The accounts are mine. The foundation connections are mine. You’ll walk away with whatever I decide is fair.”
I almost pitied him.
“Then I guess we’ll see.”
I disconnected.
The property filings began next.
Rebecca activated clauses my mother had buried inside the Sinclair trust.
My legal separation triggered immediate voting control over Sinclair Meridian.
Assets that had been passive for decades suddenly became visible.
Blackwood Memorial’s land lease.
Two surgical centers.
A research complex.
The Blackwoods did not own nearly as much of their empire as they claimed.
They controlled operations.
We controlled the ground beneath them.
Then Dr. Evans contacted Rebecca.
He wanted protected legal communication.
We met through encrypted video.
He looked exhausted.
“Caleb’s family asked me to amend your trauma report.”
My blood went cold.
“What part?”
“The consent dispute.”
They wanted the record changed to indicate Caleb had been temporarily confused after the crash.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because somebody accessed the hospital system afterward.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
The audit showed my chart had been opened at 3:17 a.m.
Then portions were copied.
The credentials belonged to a retired administrator.
Someone who had supposedly died eleven months earlier.
Jonathan Blackwood.
Caleb’s father.
Another dead parent.
Another impossible login.
I looked toward Marianne.
Her expression became unreadable.
“You knew?”
“No.”
But I could tell she was frightened.
Dr. Evans continued.
“There’s something else.”
He displayed a scanned page.
A surgical authorization form from seven years earlier.
Patient:
Helena Sinclair.
My mother.
Emergency contact signature:
Victoria Blackwood.
My mother had supposedly suffered her fatal stroke at home.
Yet Blackwood Memorial had a surgical authorization bearing Victoria’s signature from the night she died.
I stared at it.
“What surgery?”
Dr. Evans swallowed.
May you like
“That’s the problem.”
“The procedure field was deleted.”
