The Evicted Wife's Deportation Order

"Eleanor?" Mark's voice cracked, echoing off the bare concrete walls. "Are you crazy?"

The harsh fluorescent lights bleached the color from his face. Beside him, Chloe's artificial sweetness evaporated. She shrank back, her manicured fingers digging into the fabric of Mark's jacket as she positioned herself firmly behind his shoulder.

"Stamp Chloe's naturalization form immediately," Mark ordered, stepping forward. He planted his hands on the edge of the metal table, trying to tower over me. "I don't know how you tricked the front desk into letting you handle this, but I will not tolerate your petty jealousy."

"Sit down, applicant," I commanded, projecting my voice from my diaphragm.

"I am a tenured professor," Mark snapped. "I demand to see your supervisor. This is an abuse of power. I play golf with the regional director of this agency."

"The regional director does not oversee fraud investigations," I replied evenly.

I lifted the heavy background ledger, the one Miller had just brought down, and dropped it onto the steel table. The loud smack made Chloe jump. The blue federal seal stamped on the cover of the twelve-year-old US-8809 file faced them directly.

"Mr. Vance," I said, my tone flat and entirely stripped of the wife he had discarded. "In this room, I am a Senior Federal Immigration Officer. And the woman cowering behind you is currently facing charges of fraudulent entry and the immediate revocation of her permanent residency."

Mark blinked, his confident posture faltering for a fraction of a second. He glanced at the thick file, then back to my face. "Fraudulent entry? Chloe has been in this country for over a decade. Her record is spotless. You're making this up because you're bitter about the house."

"Section 212 of the Immigration and Nationality Act does not care about my marital status," I replied. "It cares about perjury."

Chloe peeked out from behind Mark's arm. "Mark, make her stop. She's scaring me."

"Nobody is deporting you, darling," he reassured her, patting her hand. He glared at me. "You have zero proof of anything. You're just a glorified clerk throwing a tantrum."

"Provide your passport and secondary identification, Ms. Bennett," I instructed, ignoring his insult.

Chloe shook her head. "Mark handles all my paperwork."

"If you refuse to provide identification during a federal review, I will have the guards detain you in a holding cell," I stated.

Mark reached into his leather briefcase and slammed a pristine blue passport onto the table. "Here. Look at it. Realize how foolish you're acting, and let us go."

I opened the passport, verifying the photo against the woman standing before me. "State your full legal name for the recording." I pointed to the blinking red light in the corner of the room.

"I don't have to talk to you," Chloe whispered.

"State your name, or I will mark this application as abandoned," I warned.

"Chloe Marie Bennett," she muttered.

The electronic lock on the steel door shrieked.

"Sir, you cannot enter a restricted zone!" a guard shouted from the corridor.

Leo shoved past the uniformed officer, stumbling into the interrogation room. His face flushed a deep, angry red. He wore the designer sneakers I had bought him for his birthday last month.

"Mom!" my son yelled, pointing a finger at my face. "You're using public office for personal revenge!"

Mark smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Even your own son sees exactly what you're doing, Eleanor. Pathetic."

"Tell the guard to let us leave," Leo demanded, marching up to the table. "You're embarrassing yourself. Dad and Aunt Chloe have a flight to catch for his research tour. Stop acting like a crazy ex."

I looked at the seventeen-year-old boy I had birthed in a freezing basement. The boy whose college fund I had built by scrubbing toilets. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the woman who had stolen his mother's home.

"Who gave you the address to this facility, Leo?" I asked.

"Dad texted me," Leo sneered. "He said you were having a mental breakdown at work and trying to ruin his trip. Grow up, Mom. You don't belong in their world."

"You drove all the way downtown just to insult me?" I asked.

"I came to stop you from ruining my life," Leo shot back. "Dad's promotion depends on this trip. If you mess this up, you're dead to me."

"Officer Miller," I called out to the corridor.

Miller appeared in the doorway, breathless. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Remove the minor from the interrogation room," I instructed.

"Don't you dare touch me!" Leo shouted as Miller gripped his arm. "Dad! Tell her to stop!"

"Eleanor, let the boy stay," Mark warned, his voice dropping an octave. "If you want to play federal agent, let him watch you fail. Let him see exactly why I left you."

"Minors are not permitted in high-risk fraud reviews," I stated. "Remove him, Miller."

Miller dragged my protesting son out the door. The heavy steel slammed shut, sealing the three of us inside the soundproof room.

Silence descended on the room, thick and suffocating.

Mark pulled out the aluminum chair and sat, forcing Chloe into the seat next to him. "Fine. Do your little interview. Ask your questions. I'll have my lawyers rip up your career by sunset."

I did not answer him.

My fingers rested on the edge of the manila folder. I flipped the heavy cover open.

"You signed an affidavit of financial support twelve years ago," I said to Mark, bypassing his threats entirely. "Did you verify her employment history prior to your sponsorship?"

"Chloe was an independent consultant," Mark stated proudly. "She built her own network."

"Is that right, applicant?" I asked, shifting my gaze to the woman in the white blazer.

Chloe swallowed hard. "Yes. I worked very hard."

"You claimed specialized skills in marketing," I pressed. "Which firm employed you upon your arrival?"

Chloe glanced at Mark. He gave her an encouraging nod.

"I worked for Global Dynamics," Chloe answered, her voice trembling slightly. "It was a startup."

"A startup," I repeated.

"They went out of business," Mark interjected. "It happens all the time. That doesn't invalidate her visa."

"Fascinating." I turned past the initial intake forms, the sound of crisp paper slicing through the quiet room.

I bypassed the forged bank statements. I skipped over the fake letters of recommendation.

I stopped on page sixteen.

I slid the document across the metal table, tapping my index finger against the faded ink at the bottom of the page. It was a twelve-year-old, notarized contract detailing an illegal visa affiliation between Chloe Bennett and a defunct shell company.