Chapter Ten: Family Money

“I think it’s time we talk to Evelyn.”

I stared at my aunt’s handwriting.

E. Monroe — authorized.

Three words.

That was all it took to transform the woman I had trusted my entire life into another question I didn’t know how to answer.

“No.”

Julian looked at me. “No?”

“Not yet.”

Twenty minutes earlier, I’d nearly called my father without thinking. Julian had stopped me because we needed information before confrontation.

I wasn’t making the same mistake twice.

“If Evelyn is involved with Wellington, I want to know what Wellington is before she knows we’re looking.”

Something that looked suspiciously like approval crossed Julian’s face.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’re impressed with me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.”

His mouth curved.

“Frequently. Professionally.”

I pointed at the computer. “Research.”

“Yes, counselor.”

We spent the next hour pulling every publicly available record we could find.

Wellington Strategic Holdings had been formed four years earlier through a Delaware registered agent. Its ownership wasn’t publicly disclosed. It had invested in at least six companies, including Hawthorne Acquisition Partners, which in turn held the controlling interest in Cole Brand Strategies.

But Wellington hadn’t behaved like a typical investment fund.

It didn’t advertise.

It didn’t appear to solicit outside capital.

There was no website, no executive team, no press releases announcing acquisitions.

It existed quietly.

Which, in my family, usually meant intentionally.

“It’s a special-purpose investment vehicle,” I said.

“Probably.”

“For what?”

“That remains the several-million-dollar question.”

I leaned back.

The initial two-million-dollar capitalization from the trust bearing my name bothered me most.

“I need the original trust documents.”

“Do you have them?”

“Probably at home.”

“Probably?”

“I was twenty-eight when the trust terminated, Julian. I was more interested in paying off my student loans than memorizing trustee provisions.”

“You had student loans?”

I looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Your grandfather had a building named after him.”

“And?”

“And you borrowed money for law school?”

“My parents offered to pay.”

“But you refused.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I frowned. “Why does that surprise you?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why ask?”

His gaze lingered on me.

“Because I’m collecting evidence.”

“Of what?”

“That you’ve been making your life unnecessarily difficult since at least twenty-two.”

I rolled my eyes.

“My parents had already paid for college. Law school was my decision.”

“And God forbid Camille Monroe owe anybody anything.”

There was no humor in his voice now.

I looked at him.

“You make that sound pathological.”

“Not pathological.”

“What, then?”

“Lonely.”

The word caught me off guard.

Julian seemed to recognize it.

He turned back toward the computer.

I let him.

“I’ll find the documents tonight,” I said.

“Good.”

“And then we’ll talk to Evelyn.”

“We?”

I looked at him.

“You’re coming.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“Was that an invitation?”

“No.”

“A demand?”

“Yes.”

“Even better.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Being ordered around by a beautiful woman?”

I froze.

Julian kept looking at the screen.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?”

“Called me beautiful and then pretended you didn’t.”

He looked over.

“I didn’t pretend anything.”

“You said you weren’t flirting with me.”

“I said when I started, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

My stomach did something profoundly disloyal.

“Is this you starting?”

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

Slowly this time.

No ambiguity.

Then they returned to mine.

“Do you have to ask?”

Oh.

I stood.

“I’m leaving.”

His laugh followed me toward the door.

“Coward.”

I turned around.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I am not a coward.”

“Then why are you halfway out of my office?”

“Because I have actual work to do.”

“Of course.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

I opened the door.

“Camille.”

I looked back.

His expression had changed.

Serious again.

“If the trust documents show something you don’t understand, don’t call Grant.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Don’t call Evelyn either.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“And don’t confront anyone alone.”

I folded my arms.

“Are you giving me instructions?”

“Advice.”

“Unsolicited.”

“The most expensive kind.”

“I’m not paying you.”

“Story of my life.”

I shook my head and left before he could make me smile again.

He failed.

I smiled in the elevator.

That annoyed me all the way home.

⸻

The trust documents were exactly where I expected them to be.

Eventually.

It took forty-five minutes, two closets, and one increasingly aggressive argument with a filing cabinet before I found the original binder in a storage box labeled LAW SCHOOL / TAX / IMPORTANT.

Apparently twenty-eight-year-old Camille had believed organization meant capital letters.

I carried the binder downstairs and spread everything across the dining-room table.

The trust had been established by my grandfather when I was six.

Its terms were straightforward.

Income could be distributed for my education, health, maintenance, and support. Principal remained under trustee control until I reached twenty-eight, at which point the remaining assets were to be distributed outright.

I found the termination statement.

I remembered signing it.

I remembered the amount too.

Just over $3.8 million.

I had invested most of it.

Grant knew I’d received money from my grandfather.

He did not know the amount.

At the time, we’d been married for less than a year, and my father’s attorney had been emphatic about keeping inherited property segregated.

Grant had laughed when I explained it.

Your family really does treat marriage like a hostile takeover.

I’d laughed too.

I wasn’t laughing now.

I found the distribution schedule.

Cash.

Securities.

Two minority partnership interests.

Everything matched my memory.

No Wellington.

No two-million-dollar transfer.

I read it again.

Then a third time.

Nothing.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Julian.

Did you find it?

Yes. Wellington isn’t listed.

The typing bubbles appeared immediately.

I’m coming over.

I smiled despite myself.

I didn’t invite you.

You ordered me to attend the Evelyn interrogation. I’m interpreting that broadly.

That’s not how consent works, counselor.

The bubbles disappeared.

Then:

Fair point. May I come over?

I stared at the message.

There it was again.

A joke.

A correction.

Respect.

No sulking.

No argument.

Just a simple adjustment.

I hated how much I noticed those things now.

Yes.

His response arrived instantly.

See? Growth.

I sent him a single middle-finger emoji.

He reacted with a heart.

Problem.

⸻

Julian arrived thirty minutes later with coffee.

“You need to stop feeding me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You were going to.”

“I absolutely wasn’t.”

He handed me the cup.

My exact order.

Again.

I took it.

“Thank you.”

His smile was unbearable.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re very loud when you’re silent.”

“I’ve been told that too.”

“By the women you actually dated?”

His eyes sharpened.

Interesting.

Where had that come from?

I immediately looked down at the trust documents.

Julian noticed.

Of course he did.

“Are you asking about my dating history?”

“No.”

“That sounded like a question.”

“It was rhetorical.”

“Shame.”

“Read.”

He sat beside me.

Too close.

Not touching.

Just close enough that I could smell his cologne.

I moved my chair approximately two inches away.

Julian looked at the gap.

Then at me.

“Comfortable?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good.”

The bastard was smiling.

We spent fifteen minutes comparing the trust termination records with the banking documents from Wellington.

Then Julian stopped.

“Camille.”

“What?”

“Look at the dates.”

I did.

The trust termination statement was dated June 14.

The two-million-dollar transfer into Wellington occurred June 11.

Three days earlier.

I frowned.

“That isn’t possible.”

“It is if the transfer happened before the trust terminated.”

“But the distribution schedule should account for it.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t.”

“No.”

I turned another page.

Then another.

“Maybe it was an investment held by the trust.”

“Then it should have been listed among the assets distributed to you.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Which means?”

I hated the answer.

“Either the accounting is wrong…”

“Or?”

“Someone moved two million dollars out of the trust three days before it terminated.”

Julian nodded.

“And whoever did it characterized Wellington as holding the money for my beneficial interest.”

“Yes.”

“Which would explain why it wasn’t treated as a distribution.”

“Potentially.”

I looked at him.

“There you go again.”

“Houses are expensive.”

I ignored him.

“If the money remained beneficially mine, why wasn’t I told?”

“That is what we ask Evelyn.”

I reached for my phone.

This time Julian didn’t stop me.

I called my aunt.

She answered on the second ring.

“Camille.”

“We need to talk.”

“I assumed we would.”

That answer irritated me immediately.

“About Wellington.”

Silence.

Not surprise.

Not confusion.

Silence.

“You know what it is.”

“Yes.”

Julian watched my face.

“Did you authorize the trust to transfer two million dollars into it?”

Another pause.

“Yes.”

I stood.

“Why?”

“Because your grandfather asked me to.”

“My grandfather was dead.”

“For six months.”

I stopped.

“What?”

“He gave the instructions before he died.”

My mind raced.

“Why would Granddad move money out of my trust?”

“He didn’t move it out.”

“It went to an entity I didn’t know existed.”

“But it remained for your benefit.”

“Then why wasn’t it disclosed to me?”

Evelyn sighed.

“Because it wasn’t supposed to be.”

Anger flared.

“What does that mean?”

“It means your grandfather knew you.”

I almost laughed.

“That isn’t an explanation.”

“He knew that the moment you received control of everything, you would spend the rest of your life proving you didn’t need it.”

I looked at Julian.

He very carefully did not react.

Traitor.

“So he hid two million dollars from me?”

“He preserved two million dollars for you.”

“Without telling me.”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

Evelyn was quiet.

Then she said, “For the day you needed to leave.”

The room went still.

I sat back down.

“What?”

“Your grandfather adored you, Camille. But he watched the women in our family marry men who were very comfortable with Monroe money. He wanted you to have something no husband could influence, borrow against, persuade you to invest, or even know existed.”

My throat tightened.

“Grant didn’t know?”

“Not from us.”

I looked at the Wellington records.

“But he knows about Wellington now.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

That was the first thing Evelyn had said that sounded uncertain.

“And Hawthorne?”

“What about it?”

“Wellington funded Hawthorne.”

Silence.

“Aunt Evelyn?”

“I know.”

“And Hawthorne owns fifty-one percent of Vanessa Cole’s company.”

This silence was different.

Longer.

“What did you say?”

I looked at Julian.

He straightened.

“You didn’t know.”

“No.”

The certainty in Evelyn’s voice chilled me.

“Then who authorized the investment?”

“I did not.”

“But your initials are on the Monroe file.”

“For Wellington. Not Hawthorne.”

Julian was already reaching for the ownership chart.

“When was the Hawthorne investment made?” Evelyn asked.

“Eight months ago.”

Another silence.

Then:

“Camille, listen to me very carefully.”

My grip tightened around the phone.

“I’m listening.”

“Wellington’s governing documents require two approvals for any investment above five hundred thousand dollars.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“And?”

“Yours.”

I stared at the phone.

“That doesn’t make sense. I didn’t know Wellington existed.”

“I know.”

“Then how did it send seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Hawthorne?”

“I don’t know.”

Julian pulled the wire confirmation closer.

His eyes moved rapidly across the page.

Then stopped.

He pointed to the authorization section at the bottom.

I’d seen it before.

I simply hadn’t understood what I was looking at.

Two authorization codes.

One beside Evelyn Monroe.

And one beside my name.

Camille M. Monroe.

My authorization.

Except I had never given it.

“Camille?” Evelyn said.

I couldn’t answer.

Because beneath the authorization code was something else.

A digital signature certificate.

I leaned closer.

Julian went completely still beside me.

The certificate wasn’t merely associated with my name.

It contained an authentication date.

A location.

And an IP address.

I recognized the address.

Not because I knew numbers like that by memory.

Because the identifying network name appeared beside it.

WHITMORE-RESIDENCE-PRIMARY

My house.

Our house.

The authorization to use $750,000 of money my grandfather had secretly protected for me had come from inside the home I shared with Grant.

I looked at Julian.

He was no longer smiling.

Neither was I.

Because eight months ago, while I was sleeping beside my husband, someone inside our home had used my identity to spend money I didn’t even know I had.