After My Divorce, I Married His Brother

I saw the first post at seven in the morning.

I was drinking coffee at the kitchen counter, still in the silk robe I'd worn to bed, when my phone lit up with a text from Diana Voss. She'd sent a screenshot without comment. She didn't need to add one.

The image showed Charli Guzman draped across Spencer's leather sofa—my former sofa—wearing a cream cashmere sweater I'd left behind in the apartment. Her legs were bare. Her smile was wide. The caption read: "New beginnings ✨"

I set my coffee down and opened Instagram.

There were six stories total. Charli in the kitchen, holding a wine glass. Charli in the master bedroom doorway, blowing a kiss at the camera. Charli wearing my Cartier bracelet—the one Spencer had given me on our second anniversary—and captioning it "Gifts from my love."

The final story was a close-up of her face, lips pursed, eyes half-closed. The text overlay read: "Out with the old 💋"

I watched all six stories twice. Then I locked my phone, finished my coffee, and opened my contacts.

Diana called thirty seconds later.

"Tell me you're not sitting there taking this," she said.

"I'm not sitting here taking this," I said.

"Good. What do you need?"

"Nothing yet."

She was quiet for a moment. "Laila—"

"I'll call you later," I said, and hung up.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I needed. Richard Moss. Page Six. We'd met at a Coleman Group charity auction three years ago. He'd asked me about Spencer's business strategy. I'd answered his questions. He'd remembered.

I called him at seven forty-five.

"Laila Coleman," he said. His voice was bright, curious. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I have something for you," I said. "Court records. Miami-Dade County. Sealed but accessible if you know where to look."

"Whose records?"

"Charli Guzman."

He was quiet for three seconds. I heard keys clicking in the background.

"What am I looking for?" he asked.

"Fraud conviction. 2019. Elderly victim. Plea bargain. She served six months and paid restitution."

More clicking. Then a low whistle.

"You're sure about this?"

"I'm sure," I said.

"And you want...?"

"Nothing," I said. "Run it or don't. Your call."

I hung up before he could ask anything else.

By noon, the story was live.

By one PM, Charli's Instagram had gone private.

By two PM, Spencer called me four times. I let every call go to voicemail.

I listened to the first message while I was getting dressed for my meeting with the lawyers.

"What the hell did you do?" Spencer's voice was tight, furious. "Charli's phone is blowing up. People are calling her a con artist. A criminal. This is—Laila, this is unacceptable. You don't get to—"

I deleted it halfway through and blocked his number.

---

The law offices of Hartwell & Crane occupied the forty-second floor of a glass tower on Park Avenue. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble floors. Receptionists who smiled like they were paid to mean it.

Spencer's attorney was a man named Gerald Frost—sixty, silver-haired, expensive suit. He'd represented the Coleman family for twenty years. He greeted me with a handshake that lasted exactly one second.

"Mrs. Coleman," he said. "Shall we?"

My legal team was already seated in the conference room when I arrived. Two attorneys and a forensic accountant, all referred by Rex through a London contact I'd never met. The lead attorney was a woman named Simone Carr—late forties, sharp-eyed, zero patience for bullshit.

She stood when I entered and nodded once.

Spencer was seated at the far end of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn't look at me.

Gerald Frost opened a leather portfolio and slid a document across the table.

"We've prepared a revised settlement offer," he said. "Triple the original sum, as requested. In exchange, we expect the confidentiality and non-disparagement clauses to remain in place, and we'll need a signature by end of business Friday."

Simone picked up the document and skimmed it. She didn't touch the pen they'd placed beside it.

"We'll need three business days to review," she said. "And we'll be conducting a full audit of all marital assets before any signature."

Gerald's smile thinned. "That won't be necessary—"

"It will," Simone said. She opened her own folder and slid a stack of papers across the table. "We've identified several discrepancies in the asset disclosure. Offshore accounts. Real estate holdings under corporate shells. A rather interesting trust in the Caymans."

Gerald's face didn't change, but his fingers tightened on his pen.

Spencer leaned forward. "What the hell is this?"

"Due diligence," Simone said. She looked at him directly for the first time. "Your wife is entitled to a complete and accurate accounting of marital assets. If you've been forthcoming, this will be very quick."

Spencer's lawyer cleared his throat. "Mrs. Coleman, I assure you—"

"We'll send our findings by Wednesday," Simone said. She stood. "Gentlemen."

I followed her out without looking back.

In the elevator, Simone allowed herself a small smile.

"They weren't expecting that," she said.

"No," I said. "They weren't."

The doors opened onto the lobby. Simone stepped out, then turned back.

"One more thing," she said. "How did your team get access to those offshore accounts?"

I looked at her.

"I didn't ask," I said.

She nodded slowly. Then she smiled again—wider this time.

"Good," she said. "Don't."

I walked out into the afternoon sunlight and checked my phone.

One new message. Rex.

"How did it go?"

I typed back: "Better than expected."

Three dots appeared immediately. Then: "Dinner tonight?"

I hesitated. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Then I typed: "Yes."

I sent it before I could change my mind.