Chapter 2

I sat alone in my private study, the leather-bound journal open on my lap. Outside, rain tapped against the window like impatient fingers, matching the rhythm of my racing heart. The house was silent—Oliver had left for "an important business dinner" an hour ago. The same excuse, different day.

My fingers traced over the entries I'd written months ago, each page a testament to my foolishness, my desperate need to believe in something that had never existed.

*April 15th: Oliver came home with roses today. Said he was sorry about Veronica. Promised it would never happen again. I believe him. I have to.*

*June 27th: Found lipstick on his collar. He cried when I confronted him. Said I was the only one who truly understood him, but that sometimes I make it hard to be attracted to me. "If you'd just try harder with your appearance, I wouldn't need to look elsewhere." I'll do better.*

*September 3rd: Caught him texting Jessica. He said I was paranoid, damaged from my parents' death. That I create problems where there aren't any. Maybe he's right.*

A bitter laugh escaped my lips as I turned to the most recent entry, written just after I'd overheard his conversation with mistress number thirteen.

*He never loved me. Seven years of my life given to a man who saw me as nothing but a bank account with a convenient body attached.*

I closed the journal and moved to my desk, pulling out the folder I'd retrieved from our safe earlier. The manila paper felt heavy in my hands—heavier than paper should feel. Inside were the bank statements I'd had my private investigator collect over the past week.

There it was in black and white: five million dollars transferred each month for the past six months to various shell companies. All registered under subsidiaries of Oliver Smith Holdings. All happening while he claimed the business was struggling and needed more of my family's investment.

My hands trembled as I traced the transactions. Sixty million dollars of my inheritance, vanishing into accounts I'd never approved. The evidence was damning, irrefutable.

I didn't sleep that night. Instead, I rehearsed what needed to be said, prepared for the denials, the manipulation, the charm offensive that would inevitably follow.

When morning came, I found Oliver in our kitchen, casually scrolling through his phone while sipping espresso. He looked up when I entered, his perfect smile flashing.

"Morning, beautiful. You look tired." His voice carried that practiced concern that had fooled me for so long. "Rough night?"

I placed the bank statements on the marble countertop between us, sliding them toward him with one finger.

"What are these transfers, Oliver?"

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—a momentary calculation, quickly masked.

"Business investments, darling. Nothing for you to worry about." He pushed the papers aside without looking at them. "I've told you before, corporate finance is complicated."

"Sixty million dollars to shell companies under your name isn't 'complicated.' It's theft." My voice remained steady, though my heart pounded against my ribs.

He sighed dramatically, setting down his cup. "This again? Scarlett, we've talked about these paranoid episodes of yours."

"Paranoid?" The word stung like a slap.

"Ever since your parents died, you've had these... moments." He reached for my hand, but I pulled away. "These trust issues, this need to control everything. The doctors said it might happen, remember? Trauma manifesting as suspicion."

"Don't." I felt something breaking inside me—the last thread of doubt, perhaps. "Don't use my parents' death against me again."

"I'm worried about you." He stood, moving around the counter toward me. "First the accusations about other women, now this? You're not well, Scarlett. Maybe we should call Dr. Lawson again, get your medication adjusted."

I stepped back, maintaining distance. "The transfers, Oliver. Explain them."

"There's nothing to explain!" His voice rose slightly, that familiar edge creeping in. "You're creating problems because you're unhappy with yourself! Ever since the miscarriage, you've been looking for reasons to blame me for your unhappiness."

The mention of our lost baby—his favorite weapon—nearly broke my resolve. But not this time.

Without another word, I grabbed my car keys and left, his calls following me to the door. My hands were steady as I drove to the Robinson estate's law office on the outskirts of the city.

Robert Miller, my family's lawyer for thirty years, was waiting for me. The concern in his eyes told me he already knew.

"Scarlett," he said, gesturing to the chair across from his mahogany desk. "I've reviewed the documents you sent."

"And?" My voice sounded foreign to my own ears.

"It's worse than we thought." He adjusted his glasses, pushing a folder toward me. "Oliver has filed paperwork that could potentially freeze your trust fund in two weeks. Once that happens, it will take months, maybe years to untangle."

My throat tightened. "How could he do this without my signature?"

"There's a provision in your marriage contract—" Robert paused, his expression grim. "The one that was rewritten three years ago."

The room seemed to tilt slightly. "I never rewrote our marriage contract."

"According to our records, you did." He slid a document across the desk. "This signature... is it yours?"

I stared at the elegant scrawl at the bottom of the page, a perfect imitation of my handwriting.

"No," I whispered, feeling the walls I'd built around my heart crumble completely. "No, it's not."