Chapter 5
I called Camille the moment Samuel left.
My hands were shaking so badly that I nearly dropped the phone.
When she answered, I told her about the trust.
The suspicious authorization.
The loan proposal.
And the references to my unborn daughter's future benefits.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she asked, "Do you have copies of everything?"
"Yes."
"Good. Send them securely to my office."
I swallowed.
"Camille, can Marcus actually do this?"
"We need to establish what was submitted, what representations were made, and whether any lender relied on them."
I closed my eyes.
"But my daughter isn't even born."
"I know."
Her voice softened.
"Nia, we're going to protect both of you."
I nodded.
Then remembered Tessa.
"There's another person who may have evidence."
"Who?"
"The woman Marcus has been seeing."
Camille paused.
"Has she contacted you again?"
"Not yet."
"Then let my office handle communication. We don't want anyone pressured or frightened."
I agreed.
By noon, Camille had arranged a meeting with a financial litigation attorney named David Ellis.
He specialized in disputed loans and financial fraud.
I arrived wearing the same beige maternity dress.
My feet were swollen.
My back ached.
But I refused to let Marcus's actions force me into hiding.
David reviewed the documents carefully.
Then looked at me.
"Mrs. Bennett, this loan application raises serious concerns."
I nodded.
"What kind?"
"The applicant appears to have described future trust-related benefits as a potential source of repayment."
I stared at him.
"But those funds aren't his."
"Exactly."
He continued.
"And the application includes a document suggesting you consented to certain financial arrangements."
My stomach tightened.
"I didn't."
He nodded.
"We need to challenge that representation immediately."
He explained that the lender would need to verify the documents.
If false information had been submitted, the application could trigger further investigation.
But the existence of an application didn't mean the loan had been approved.
I exhaled.
"Thank God."
David leaned forward.
"Still, we shouldn't assume there's no exposure until we've reviewed the full file."
I nodded.
He looked toward Camille.
"We should notify the trust company and request preservation of all relevant records."
Camille agreed.
Then David asked me a question.
"Has Marcus ever pressured you to sign financial documents?"
I almost laughed.
"Constantly."
He waited.
I described the investment proposals.
The requests to add him to the deed.
The arguments about my grandmother's inheritance.
Then I remembered something.
Three months earlier, Marcus had taken me to dinner.
He seemed unusually affectionate.
He brought roses.
Complimented my dress.
Talked excitedly about our daughter's future.
Then he placed a folder beside my plate.
"Just some financial planning documents," he said.
I remembered opening the first page.
It concerned a proposed family investment structure.
I told him I wanted Samuel to review it.
Marcus became furious.
He accused me of treating him like a stranger.
He said my grandmother had poisoned me against trusting my husband.
We left the restaurant without dessert.
And he didn't speak to me for two days.
I told David everything.
He nodded slowly.
"Do you still have the folder?"
"I think so."
"Please locate it."
I left the meeting with a list of tasks.
Preserve documents.
Review bank access.
Contact the trust administrator.
Identify suspicious communications.
And most importantly, avoid discussing the financial investigation directly with Marcus.
That afternoon, I returned home.
The house felt painfully quiet.
Marcus's suitcase was gone.
His cologne still sat on the dresser.
His wedding photograph remained on the nightstand.
I picked it up.
In the picture, we were standing beneath an arch of white flowers.
Marcus held my waist.
I was laughing.
We looked happy.
For a moment, I missed him so much I could barely breathe.
Not the man who filed for divorce.
Not the man who tried to use our daughter financially.
I missed the man I believed he was.
I sat on the bed.
Then started crying.
I cried for our marriage.
For the family I'd imagined.
For the daughter who would arrive into a world already complicated by adult betrayal.
When I finally stopped, I wiped my face.
Then I stood.
I walked into the nursery.
Soft pink curtains hung beside the window.
A white crib stood against the wall.
Tiny dresses filled the closet.
I had decorated everything myself.
Marcus had promised to assemble the rocking chair.
It still sat unopened in its box.
I placed a hand on the cardboard.
Then laughed sadly.
For months, I'd been waiting for him to become the father he promised to be.
But my daughter couldn't wait forever.
I called my older brother, Andre.
He answered immediately.
"Hey, little sis."
My throat tightened.
"Andre, can you help me with something?"
His voice softened.
"Anything."
I looked at the box.
"Can you come build the baby's rocking chair?"
He paused.
"Of course."
Then he asked, "Where's Marcus?"
I started crying again.
Andre listened as I explained.
When I finished, his voice was dangerously quiet.
"I'm coming over."
"Andre—"
"Not to fight him."
He paused.
"To help my sister."
An hour later, he arrived carrying a toolbox.
He hugged me gently.
Then spent the afternoon assembling the chair.
We didn't discuss the divorce constantly.
We talked about Grandma Ruth.
Our childhood.
The ridiculous games we played in her backyard.
At one point, Andre held up a wooden piece.
"Pretty sure this manufacturer hates fathers."
I laughed for the first time in days.
By evening, the rocking chair stood beside the crib.
Andre sat in it.
Tested the movement.
Then smiled.
"Perfect."
I ran my fingers along the armrest.
"Thank you."
He looked at me.
"Nia, you don't have to do this alone."
My eyes filled.
"I know."
But I hadn't known.
Not really.
For years, Marcus made me feel that asking my family for help meant disrespecting him.
Now I realized how isolated I'd become.
Andre stood.
Then handed me a small envelope.
I frowned.
"What's this?"
"Something Grandma wanted you to have."
My heart tightened.
"Another letter?"
He shook his head.
"A photograph."
I opened it.
Inside was a picture of Grandma Ruth holding me as a newborn.
She was smiling.
I was wrapped in a pink blanket.
On the back, she'd written:
The first person who teaches a child what safety feels like should never make that child afraid.
I pressed the photograph against my chest.
Then my phone rang.
Camille.
I answered.
"Nia, I need you to sit down."
My stomach dropped.
"What happened?"
"We received records from the lender."
I gripped the rocking chair.
"And?"
"The loan application contains another document."
My mouth went dry.
"What document?"
Camille paused.
"A proposed agreement assigning future financial benefits associated with your daughter to a business entity."
I closed my eyes.
"Whose business?"
She took a breath.
"Valerie Bennett's."
I couldn't speak.
Then Camille said something even worse.
"Valerie signed it as an authorized representative."
I stared toward the crib.
My daughter's room suddenly felt too quiet.
Because Marcus's mother hadn't merely encouraged him.
May you like
She had placed her own name on documents involving money meant for my child.
And that meant the betrayal was much bigger than my marriage.
