Chapter 3

On the sixth day, Christian came to ask about Grandpa's money.

I sat on the bed with Kayla in my arms and poured him some water, using the only mug in the room. It was a chipped enamel mug with a broken edge. He glanced at it, but didn't pick it up.

"Mari, be honest. Did you actually call your grandpa?"

"I did. He said he needed more time to think."

"Think about what? You're obviously his favorite grandchild. Did you even explain our situation properly?" he questioned me harshly.

…

At last, Christian's gentle mask cracked. Behind it was a flash of cold impatience. Not once in three years had he ever spoken to me like that.

The voice in my head whispered, "In our previous life, he only spoke like that the day the company went bankrupt. This time, it happened earlier because he's getting desperate."

"I'll call him again tomorrow."

Christian stared at me for two seconds, then smiled. "Okay. I trust you."

Before leaving, he turned back and looked at me, though only for a moment. It wasn't out of love, but the need for an assessment. He was calculating how much more he could still squeeze out of me.

That night, the video Alistair sent was shorter than usual—only 38 seconds.

In the master bedroom, the bedside table sat a photo frame. Inside was a picture of Christian and me on our wedding day.

Summer picked it up, glanced at it, then placed it inside the drawer. After that, she walked over to Christian's side and plugged her phone charger into the bedside outlet.

The movement was effortless and natural, like she belonged in that bedroom.

Christian walked in from outside and handed her a glass of warm milk, something he had never given me before.

In this lifetime, the only things he had ever given me were a peeled apple and a mug of cold water he never even picked up.

I saved the video and replied to Alistair, "What does he have planned for tomorrow afternoon?"

"At 2:00 pm, he's taking Summer to look at furniture at the new home furnishing mall, the one that occupies the entire fourth floor."

"Okay. I need to make a trip back home."

At 2:00 pm the next day, Alistair waited for me at the alley entrance.

Christian's car drove out from the basement parking garage, turned onto the main road, and disappeared at the intersection.

Alistair opened the car door for me.

The lights in the living room were off, and the curtains were drawn. A scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the air. Meanwhile, two wine glasses sat on the coffee table; one even had a lipstick mark on the rim.

Summer's luxurious scarf was draped across the couch. I didn't look any longer and walked straight into the study.

The safe was underneath the desk. I keyed in my birthday—0717—and the lock clicked open. Only the supplementary agreement for the notarization of marital property lay inside.

It wasn't an agreement made against me, but one that Christian had signed himself. It stated that all property acquired during the marriage would voluntarily become jointly owned by both spouses.

The signature date was one week before our wedding.

I flipped to the last page. Christian's name was signed with force. When he signed the document, he must've truly believed he wanted to spend his life with me.

I folded the agreement twice and placed it into my bag before closing the safe.

As I walked out of the study, I passed the master bedroom and glanced inside. The photo frame holding our wedding picture had been replaced with a solo portrait of Summer.

On her side of the bed, there was a phone charger and an open fashion magazine. The wardrobe door was slightly open, and inside hung her camel-colored coat.

I turned and left, closing the door behind me. The hallway breeze carried away the perfume scent, scattering it little by little.

After I returned to that miserable, run-down apartment, I sent Alistair a message. "Arrange a meeting with Mr. Walker tomorrow afternoon."

"Understood, Ms. Stone.

"Your father once said something. Out of the three generations of the Stone family, you're most like your grandfather."

The following afternoon, I went for my postpartum checkup.

Taylor Walker was waiting for me in the hospital lounge, a stack of documents spread across his lap. It included a corporate ownership tracing chart, bank transfer records, and hotel reservation records.

The earliest was dated July 17th last year, my birthday. That morning, Christian had sent me a message. "Happy birthday, wifey. I booked your favorite restaurant for tonight."

At 2:00 pm, however, he checked into a king room with Summer.

The text message history was next.

Summer had sent, "How much does her dad still have?"

Christian replied, "We can go for another round. That old geezer trusts her."

"Old geezer means Grandpa," Kayla said. "He's insulting Grandpa."

"Ms. Stone, we have enough evidence," Taylor said. "When do you want to make your move?"

"Tomorrow," I answered. "Once the final transfer goes through, send me the screenshot. At 3:05 pm, we'll submit the asset freeze application at the same time."