Chapter 4 - The Broken Trust|
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
For eleven years, Julian had complained bitterly about the strict, unbreakable terms of the family trust my father had set up for us when we got married. Julian had tried dozens of times to liquidate it, to refinance it, to pull funds out for his risky business ventures, but the legal framework had remained impenetrable.
I had always thought my father was just being an overprotective, old-fashioned dad who didn't trust his son-in-law with money.
Now I realized the truth. The trust wasn't a financial safety net. It was a vault.
"Julian didn't just want to get me out of that hospital room because of medical bills," I whispered, the pieces clicking together in a terrifying picture. "He found a way into the trust, didn't he?"
"He didn't find it on his own," my father said bitterly. "Someone offered him a payout. Arthur Vance's proxies reached out to Julian two months ago. They offered to buy out his debt and give him five million dollars in cash if he signed over the administrative rights to the trust."
"And the only way he could sign those rights over without my consent..."
"...was if you were declared legally incompetent, or if you died," my father finished the sentence for me.
A sickening wave of nausea washed over me. The man I had shared a bed with for over a decade, the father of my daughter, hadn't just neglected me in that hospital bed. He had been waiting for me to succumb to my injuries so he could sign away the very thing that was keeping us alive.
"And my accident?" I choked out. "Did Julian—"
"No," my father interrupted firmly. "Julian is a greedy idiot, but he doesn't have the stomach for murder. Vance's team staged the crash to speed up the process. When you survived, Vance put pressure on Julian to force you out of the hospital, to get you home where they could control you."
Suddenly, the front door of the house clicked open.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Heavy, hurried footsteps.
My father was on his feet in a fraction of a second. His hand slid beneath his jacket, pulling a sleek, dark firearm from a concealed holster with a speed that didn't belong to a retired civilian.
"Stay behind me," he ordered, his voice dropping into that terrifying, icy command tone.
The study door pushed open.
May you like
Standing in the hallway, looking disheveled, terrified, and soaked in sweat, was Julian.
|
