Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE EXISTED
“Julian, if you take one more step toward that document, I will have you removed from this building.”
My voice carried across the Grand Sterling Ballroom.
Five hundred guests had just learned that the woman Julian Thorne once dismissed as an insignificant bookstore owner was actually the controlling shareholder of the investment firm where he worked.
But Julian wasn't staring at me anymore.
He was staring at the red leather folder in my hands.
And for the first time since I'd known him, he looked genuinely afraid.
“Anna,” he said quietly, “you don't understand what you're holding.”
“Then explain it.”
His eyes moved toward Arthur Whitmore.
Arthur stood beside the stage, his usually composed expression strained.
“We should discuss this privately,” Arthur suggested.
“No.”
The word came out sharper than I intended.
Twenty minutes earlier, someone had attempted to transfer forty million dollars from the Sterling Legacy Foundation's children's hospital construction fund.
The authorization carried my signature.
And Julian had tried to grab it before I could examine it.
There was nothing private about that.
I turned toward Daniel Brooks.
“Have the ballroom entrances monitored. Nobody connected to Whitmore Capital's transaction team leaves without speaking to our investigators.”
Daniel nodded.
“Already arranged, Madam Chairwoman.”
Tiffany Monroe stepped forward, her emerald gown shimmering beneath the chandeliers.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Julian hasn't done anything wrong.”
I looked at her.
“Then he should welcome an investigation.”
Julian caught her elbow.
“Tiffany. Stop talking.”
Something about his tone surprised me.
Julian had always enjoyed watching other people embarrass themselves, especially when he could pretend to be the reasonable one.
Tonight, he wanted silence.
I opened the folder.
The first page contained my forged signature.
The second showed a transfer authorization naming an investment vehicle called Northbridge Development Holdings.
The third contained a photograph.
It was a photograph of my late father's silver pocket watch.
My breath caught.
The watch had belonged to three generations of Sterlings. My father carried it through every business meeting, every hospital visit, and every Sunday afternoon we spent together.
When he died, my mother gave it to me.
Three years ago, during my divorce, it disappeared.
Julian had told me I probably misplaced it while packing.
I lifted the photograph.
“Where did this come from?”
Arthur looked confused.
“I haven't seen that page.”
“Arthur.”
“I swear to you, Anastasia. Daniel's team printed the transaction documents. I brought the folder downstairs without examining every sheet.”
Daniel stepped closer.
“Someone inserted additional material?”
“Apparently,” Arthur answered.
I studied the photograph.
The watch lay on a dark wooden desk beside a handwritten note.
Keep the original. Use the copy.
My stomach tightened.
I recognized the handwriting.
It belonged to Julian.
“Where is my father's watch?” I demanded.
Julian's face changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You told me it was lost.”
“Because I thought it was.”
I held up the photograph.
“Then why is it sitting on your desk?”
Tiffany turned sharply toward him.
“Julian?”
He ignored her.
“Anna, you need to stop making accusations in front of these people.”
I almost laughed.
For six years of marriage, those words had been his favorite weapon.
Don't embarrass me.
Don't make a scene.
You're being emotional.
But the woman standing in that ballroom was no longer afraid of embarrassing Julian Thorne.
I handed the photograph to Daniel.
“Find out where and when this was taken.”
Daniel examined the image.
“There may be another problem.”
He pointed toward the watch.
“The lid is open.”
I looked again.
Inside the silver case was a tiny engraved inscription.
For Anastasia. Remember what cannot be bought.
My father had ordered that engraving when I turned eighteen.
But in the photograph, beneath the inscription, someone had scratched four numbers.
0417\.
April seventeenth.
The date my father died.
The date Julian first persuaded me to give him temporary access to my personal financial records.
I felt suddenly cold.
“Arthur,” I said, “when was the authorization submitted?”
He checked his tablet.
“Three forty-six this afternoon.”
“And what supporting identity verification was used?”
Arthur hesitated.
“An older notarized authorization.”
“How old?”
He looked at Julian.
“Three years.”
I stared at him.
Three years ago, I had been divorcing Julian.
Three years ago, my financial advisers had revoked every permission connected to our marriage.
At least, that was what I believed.
“You told me everything had been canceled,” I whispered.
Arthur's expression darkened.
“It was.”
“Then how did a revoked authorization become active?”
Before Arthur could answer, Margaret Ellis approached.
The elderly librarian had remained near the front table, watching everything with an expression I couldn't quite read.
“Anastasia,” she said softly, “may I see the photograph?”
I handed it to her.
Her fingers trembled.
“Where did you get this?”
“Inside the transfer folder.”
Margaret looked at my father's watch.
Then at Julian.
“Oh, dear God.”
“What is it?”
She swallowed.
“Your father brought this watch to my library shortly before he died.”
I blinked.
“My father?”
“Yes. He said he needed a safe place for something important.”
Julian suddenly interrupted.
“That's enough.”
Margaret looked at him.
“You remember, don't you?”
His face drained of color.
I stepped closer.
“Remember what?”
Margaret's voice became almost inaudible.
“Your father was afraid someone had discovered the structure of the Sterling family trust. He said certain people were trying to gain control of money that was supposed to belong to children who would never have a chance otherwise.”
I stared at her.
“My father never told me that.”
“He intended to.”
“Then why didn't he?”
Margaret's eyes filled with sadness.
“Because he died four days later.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
My father had been seventy-two when he died from complications following heart surgery.
I had accepted his death as an ordinary tragedy.
Now Margaret was describing fears and arrangements I had never heard about.
Julian shook his head.
“This woman is confused. She's making connections that don't exist.”
Margaret straightened.
“I may be seventy-eight years old, Mr. Thorne, but I remember every word your father-in-law said to me.”
Then she turned to me.
“There was a sealed envelope.”
“Where is it?”
“At the library. In our archival collection.”
Julian took an involuntary step forward.
Daniel moved between us.
Margaret continued.
“Your father told me not to give it to anyone until you came asking about his watch.”
I looked down at the photograph.
My father's watch.
A forged signature.
Forty million dollars.
And a secret he'd apparently carried to his grave.
“Margaret,” I said, “why didn't you tell me before?”
Her expression crumpled.
“Because after your father's funeral, someone came to the library and told me you already knew.”
“Who?”
She looked directly at Julian.
“Your husband.”
Tiffany stepped away from him.
“Julian, what is she talking about?”
He didn't answer.
Margaret reached into her small evening purse and removed an old cream-colored library claim ticket.
Its corners were soft with age.
On the back was my father's handwriting.
Anastasia must be the one to open it.
I took the ticket.
Below the sentence was an identification number.
And underneath that, in darker ink, someone had added another message.
If Julian Thorne is standing beside her, do not let him see the contents.
I looked up.
Julian was already moving toward the exit.
But Daniel caught his arm.
And then Arthur glanced at his tablet and spoke the words that changed everything.
“Anastasia, the forty million hasn't left the foundation.”
I felt a rush of relief.
May you like
Until he continued.
“It's been redirected into an escrow account controlled by someone using your father's identity.”
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