Chapter 3
"How much did you ask my grandfather for?"
Marcus stared at me across the conference table.
His expensive navy suit suddenly looked like armor that no longer fit.
"Nia, this was years ago."
"How much?"
He rubbed his forehead.
"Two hundred thousand."
Vanessa made a sharp sound.
"What?"
I couldn't breathe.
"Two hundred thousand dollars?"
Marcus nodded.
I stared at him.
At the man who had spent our marriage criticizing my small charitable projects.
The man who told his friends I had no ambition.
The man who announced during our divorce that I would never survive without him.
He had secretly approached my grandfather asking for two hundred thousand dollars.
"For what?" I whispered.
Marcus leaned back.
"A business opportunity."
"What business?"
He hesitated.
Vanessa turned toward him.
"Marcus?"
He ignored her.
I felt my patience disappearing.
"Answer me."
Marcus looked directly at Jonathan.
"This conversation should be private."
Jonathan remained calm.
"It is private. But you are not obligated to discuss legal matters without your own counsel."
I nodded.
"Then have your attorney contact mine."
Marcus laughed bitterly.
"You're really going to turn this into a legal fight?"
I looked at Grandpa's letter.
"I didn't start this."
He stood.
"We're leaving."
Vanessa rose reluctantly.
But before they reached the door, I spoke again.
"Marcus."
He stopped.
"Did you ever use Maya's name to request money?"
His shoulders stiffened.
Then he turned.
"Don't drag our daughter into your revenge."
I felt something inside me harden.
"She's already involved. Grandpa says you requested access to her inheritance."
He looked away.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then Marcus whispered, "You don't understand how desperate things were."
I stared at him.
"What things?"
But he had already opened the door.
Vanessa followed, looking more confused than angry.
The moment they left, I sat down.
My hands were shaking.
Jonathan placed the letter beside me.
"Nia, we need to review the trust records."
I nodded.
"Immediately."
He took out his phone.
"I'll contact the independent trustees."
Claire remained near the doorway.
She had witnessed enough to understand something serious had happened.
"Do you need somewhere private to stay with Maya while you make calls?"
I looked at my daughter.
She was sitting quietly, holding her award certificate.
My heart broke.
Today was supposed to belong to her.
Not to another argument between her parents.
I knelt beside her.
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry."
She frowned.
"For what?"
"For letting grown-up problems interrupt your celebration."
Maya shook her head.
"It's okay."
I touched her cheek.
"No, baby. You deserved a happy day."
She smiled softly.
"I had one."
I looked at her.
"Really?"
She held up her certificate.
"I got my award."
Then she pointed toward the stage.
"And everybody clapped for you."
Tears filled my eyes.
Maya wrapped her arms around my neck.
"I'm proud of you, Mom."
I held her tightly.
For two years, I'd tried to protect her from the ugliness of my divorce.
Now I realized she had understood more than I wanted to believe.
That afternoon, we returned to our home.
It wasn't a mansion.
It was a comfortable house with large windows, a garden, and a kitchen where Maya loved baking cookies.
Marcus had never seen it.
After our divorce, I'd moved away from the apartment we'd shared.
He assumed I was renting something modest.
I never corrected him.
His opinions no longer controlled my decisions.
Maya changed out of her school uniform and came downstairs.
"Mom, can we frame my award?"
I smiled.
"Of course."
We placed it on the living room shelf beside a photograph of Grandpa.
Maya stared at his picture.
"I miss him."
"So do I."
She touched the frame.
"Why did he leave that letter?"
I took a breath.
"Because he was worried about something."
"About Dad?"
"Yes."
She looked down.
"Is Dad in trouble?"
I knelt beside her.
"Adults are going to review some old financial decisions. But none of this is your responsibility."
Maya nodded.
Then whispered, "Dad gets angry when people say no."
My chest tightened.
"Has he gotten angry with you?"
She hesitated.
"Sometimes."
I felt cold.
"What happened?"
She stared at the floor.
"He asked me questions about your foundation."
I frowned.
"What questions?"
"How much money you had. Who paid for our house. Whether Grandpa left me anything."
My heart began pounding.
"When?"
"Last month."
I took her hands.
"What did you tell him?"
"That I didn't know."
She looked frightened.
"Was that wrong?"
I shook my head.
"No, sweetheart. You did nothing wrong."
She began crying.
"He said I was hiding things because you told me to."
I pulled her into my arms.
"Oh, Maya."
She whispered, "I didn't want him to be mad."
I held her tightly.
And suddenly Grandpa's letter made more sense.
Marcus wasn't simply curious about my finances.
He had been questioning our nine-year-old daughter about money.
Using her as a source of information.
I felt anger rise.
But I refused to let Maya see me lose control.
I kissed her forehead.
"Listen to me. You never have to answer questions about money that make you uncomfortable."
She nodded.
"And you can always tell me when someone makes you feel afraid."
She hugged me tighter.
That evening, I called Jonathan.
I told him about Marcus questioning Maya.
He listened carefully.
Then said, "Document what she shared, but don't repeatedly question her. If custody concerns arise, we can address them through the proper process."
I nodded.
"Understood."
Then he gave me an update.
The independent trustees had located the records my grandfather referenced.
There were correspondence files.
Requests for financial information.
Draft authorization documents.
And records concerning Maya's separate trust.
I sat upright.
"Did Marcus get any money?"
"We don't know yet."
My stomach tightened.
"But there's something you should see."
"What?"
"A letter Marcus submitted to your grandfather."
I frowned.
"What kind of letter?"
Jonathan hesitated.
"It appears to contain a representation about your consent."
My pulse quickened.
"Consent to what?"
"Changing the management arrangement for Maya's trust."
I stared at the phone.
"I never agreed to that."
"That's why we need to examine it."
The next morning, I arrived at Jonathan's office.
He placed a copy of the letter in front of me.
At the bottom was my name.
Nia Bennett.
And beside it was a signature.
It looked almost exactly like mine.
Almost.
I stared at the paper.
Then looked up.
"Jonathan, I never signed this."
His expression was serious.
"I was afraid you'd say that."
I felt my hands begin shaking.
My ex-husband hadn't merely asked my grandfather for money.
May you like
Someone had attempted to use my identity to gain influence over our daughter's inheritance.
And the next document in Jonathan's folder suggested that attempt had continued even after Grandpa refused.
