Chapter 3

I called the financial manager responsible for the Mercer family accounts.

He confirmed my identity but did not explain right away. Instead, he said carefully, "Mr. Mercer put a temporary risk-control measure in place. If you need to use funds, you can submit a request first."

"This isn't a joint account. It's my personal trust. My mother left that money to me."

"I understand."

"Then why do I need my husband's permission to use my own money?"

There was a brief silence on the other end.

"Mr. Mercer was concerned about potentially unsuitable transfers during this period. He instructed us to route any exceptional withdrawals through him personally."

Another reminder from the rehabilitation center appeared on my phone. My father lay with his eyes closed while the monitor beside his bed beeped in a steady rhythm, unaware that I could not access even eighteen thousand dollars of my own money.

I called Adrian directly.

He answered on the third attempt.

"Sloane just fell asleep." He kept his voice low. "What is it?"

"My father is being transferred to rehab today. They need an eighteen-thousand-dollar deposit. You restricted my account."

"Send the bill to my assistant. He'll take care of it."

"Remove the restriction."

He was quiet for a moment. "Not right now."

"Why?"

"Sloane's center has to show proof of matching funds to the donor committee tonight. The money is being routed through the family office, so there can't be any large withdrawals from related accounts until the gala is over. I'll arrange your father's payment from somewhere else."

"That is my mother's trust. It is not a foundation account."

"It's a temporary transfer restriction, Laurel. No one is taking your money."

After my mother died, I sold the townhouse she left me for $310,000. Adrian suggested putting the money into a personal trust and letting his family office invest it.

When he became an authorized trustee, he promised me that no one could touch the principal without my consent.

I signed because, back then, I thought spouses did not need to protect themselves from each other.

"Send me the transaction history for the last month."

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"Where my money went."

His breathing changed. "Don't sit in the hospital working yourself into a state. I'll have my assistant cover the rehab deposit."

"Adrian, send me the records."

He did not agree. He only said we would talk later, then hung up.

Ten minutes later, an encrypted file arrived from the financial manager. Maybe he heard something in my voice. Maybe he had no desire to become responsible for someone else's marriage.

Four days ago, the account authorization had been changed.

That same day, $250,000 had been transferred out.

The recipient was the women's trauma recovery center Sloane had just founded.

The memo line read: short-term project advance.

I stared at that line until my phone screen dimmed.

Adrian had not restricted the account because of some blanket risk-control policy.

He had taken most of the money first, then made sure I could not freely access what remained.

I called him again.

This time he answered immediately, as if he already knew exactly what I had seen.

"The money will be back next month."

"You never asked me."

"Sloane's center had to prove the matching funds were in place before the gala or it would lose a much larger donation. It's bridge funding, not a gift."

"It was money my mother left me."

"It's managed by the family office now. Once the project closes, it goes back into the account."

"So her treatment center matters more than my father's rehabilitation?"

"Don't compare two unrelated things. I already told you, someone will pay your father's bill." His voice cooled. "You're exhausted. We can talk when you've had some sleep."

"You spent twelve thousand eight hundred dollars on fireworks for her, took two hundred fifty thousand dollars of my money to prove she had funding, and now you're telling me I have to request approval for eighteen thousand dollars to help my father."

"The fireworks were part of the foundation budget. The money will be returned. Why do you insist on turning everything into some story where I'm choosing her over you?"

I did not answer.

Because he already had.

The rehabilitation transport arrived at eleven-thirty. I stopped waiting for Adrian's assistant.

I took off my wedding ring and walked into the jewelry consignment store across from the hospital.

Seven years earlier, Adrian had slid that ring onto my finger and promised me that no matter what happened, Mrs. Mercer would never have to worry about money.

After the clerk checked the certificate, the offer was just enough to cover the deposit and my father's first three weeks of rehabilitation.

I signed the sale paperwork.

That afternoon, my father was transferred without delay.

When I returned to the hospital parking lot, a new email had arrived. It contained the final seating chart for the Mercer Foundation gala.

Sloane Whitaker's name was in the seat to Adrian's right.

Mine had been moved to Table Twelve.

The note beside it read: General family seating.