“Chloe, did you grab the towels?” his voice echoed again, impatient this time.
I stared at the frosted glass of the shower. My reflection stared back, pale and rigid.
“Chloe!” he snapped.
I grabbed the brass handle of the bathroom door and pushed it open.
“I’m not Chloe,” I said.
The water cut off instantly. The silence that followed was deafening.
“Victoria?” Nathan stammered. The shadow behind the glass shifted rapidly.
“I just got home,” I said, keeping my voice devoid of any emotion.
“I thought you were…” He cleared his throat loudly. “I thought you were the maid.”
“The maid’s name is Maria, Nathan. Not Chloe.”
The shower door slid open. Nathan stepped out, water dripping from his chest. He flashed a brilliant, apologetic smile.
“I was just thinking about my new assistant,” he explained, grabbing a towel from the rack. “We have a massive presentation today. My brain is fried.”
“Right.”
“Did you go to the clinic?” he asked, watching my face closely.
“I did,” I lied effortlessly. “They didn’t have your records on file. Must be a mix-up.”
“Ah, see? I told you,” he chuckled, wrapping the towel around his waist. “Give me ten minutes to dress. We can grab breakfast.”
“I have some emails to answer,” I said, turning my back to him. “Take your time.”
I walked down the hall and locked the heavy oak door of my private study.
I pulled my laptop from my bag and slammed it onto the desk. I didn’t even bother opening it. I dialed my wealth manager directly.
“Arthur,” I demanded the second he picked up.
“Mrs. Blake. Good morning. How is the weather in Bel Air?”
“Skip the small talk, Arthur. Pull up the master ledger for my family trust.”
“Of course. Give me one moment.”
I heard the rhythmic tapping of his keyboard. Then, the tapping stopped.
“Mrs. Blake, is there a specific transaction you’re looking for?”
“Read me the balance on the liquid asset accounts.”
A heavy sigh filtered through the speaker. “It’s currently at forty-two thousand dollars.”
I gripped the edge of the desk. “Excuse me?”
“Forty-two thousand, Mrs. Blake.”
“I brought two hundred million dollars in liquid capital into this marriage. Where is the rest of it?”
“Mr. Blake authorized a series of offshore transfers,” Arthur explained, his tone defensive and tight. “Starting three years ago. After your father approved Nathan as an authorized manager on the family investment vehicle, he began submitting written consent forms bearing your signature for every major wire.”
“Written consent? I never signed a single form regarding the principal balance.”
“We have the documents on file, ma’am. Notarized.”
“Where did the money go, Arthur?”
“He routed the funds through multiple shell companies in Cyprus,” Arthur continued. “The final destination was Zenith Enterprises.”
“Who owns Zenith?”
“It’s a holding company. Entirely under Mr. Blake’s name.”
“Freeze the accounts,” I ordered.
“I can’t do that,” Arthur replied quickly. “Mr. Blake is listed as a primary co-signer. I need a court order to freeze anything.”
I hung up the phone.
My eyes darted around the study. If he faked my signature for the trust, what else did he fake?
I dropped to my knees behind Nathan’s antique desk.
I ran my fingers under the bottom drawer. Last year, I had dropped a pen and bumped the wood, hearing a hollow rattle.
My thumb caught a small metal latch. I pressed it hard.
A hidden panel popped open. A thick manila folder slid out and hit the Persian rug.
I ripped the folder open, spreading the documents across the floor.
Bank statements. Wire transfer receipts. Offshore tax forms.
And a heavy, stapled contract with a bank crest.
“An asset mortgage agreement,” I read aloud.
I flipped to the property details. Chateau de la Roche.
My late grandfather’s vineyard in Bordeaux. The estate he built from the ground up. The one piece of property I vowed to keep in the family forever.
I turned to the final signature page.
My name sat perfectly on the dotted line. The ink was dark and bold. The loops and slants mirrored my handwriting flawlessly.
“You forged it,” I whispered.
He hadn’t just drained my accounts. He had leveraged my family’s legacy for a massive bank loan.
My phone buzzed on the floor beside me. A notification from Chloe’s public page.
I tapped the screen.
A fresh photo loaded. Chloe’s manicured hand rested on the leather steering wheel of a Porsche. On her middle finger sat a massive, square-cut emerald surrounded by a halo of crushed diamonds.
The caption read: He said I deserve the world. And the jewels to match it. 💚
I stared at the screen. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream.
I laughed. A sharp, ugly sound that scraped my throat.
I stood up and marched to the oil painting of the French countryside on the far wall. I swung the heavy gold frame open and punched the six-digit code into my wall safe.
The steel door clicked and swung outward.
The velvet boxes were gone. My mother’s emerald ring. My diamond tennis bracelets. The sapphire necklace.
The vault was entirely empty.
“Victoria?”
I jumped, spinning around.
Nathan stood in the doorway, fully dressed in his tailored charcoal suit. He looked every bit the self-made genius the magazines claimed he was. The charming, brilliant man who had swept the top socialite off her feet.
He walked up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked gently.
“The safe is empty, Nathan.”
He squeezed my shoulders, his grip firm. “I know, sweetheart.”
I stepped out of his embrace and turned to face him. “You know?”
His expression remained perfectly composed. Not a single muscle twitched in his jaw.
“The market is terrible right now,” Nathan said, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “I took your mother’s jewelry to be re-appraised and re-insured.”
“You took my mother’s ring?”
“The security in this house just isn’t up to par anymore,” he promised, his brown eyes wide and sincere. “I’ll bring it all back on Friday.”
“Friday,” I repeated, tasting the lie on my tongue.
“You have to trust me, Victoria. Everything I do is for our future.”
I stared at his handsome, earnest face.
A sickening realization settled deep in my chest. This wasn’t a marriage. It never was.
It was a five-year slaughter. A calculated, premeditated pig-butchering scam. And I was the wealthy heiress he had groomed for the butcher’s block.
“Our future,” I said, forcing a soft, agreeable smile onto my lips.
“Exactly,” he said, kissing my forehead again. “I have to get to the office. Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
I watched him walk out of the study. I listened to his footsteps echo down the marble hallway.
As soon as I heard the front door click shut, my smile vanished.
I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in ten years.
“Mr. Russo,” I said when the gruff voice answered.
“Victoria,” the lawyer replied, sounding surprised. “It’s been a long time.”
“I need a favor,” I said, staring into the dark, empty steel vault. “I need to destroy my husband. Completely.”
