Chapter 3 - The Morning After
At seven o'clock the following morning, the sun broke through the heavy gray clouds over the estate, casting long, pale light through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom.
Vivian woke up to the sound of quiet, professional activity outside.
She stepped out of bed, her body stiff and sore, and walked to the window. Down in the circular driveway sat a black Mercedes sedan flanked by a moving van and a commercial locksmith truck.
Standing near the front steps was Arthur Vance, her family’s senior estate attorney—a tall, silver-haired man in a tailored dark suit who had managed the Mercer trust for thirty years. Beside him stood two broad-shouldered security guards in plain clothes.
Vivian put on a fresh robe, gathered Oliver in her arms, and walked downstairs.
As she opened the front door, Arthur turned, his stern face instantly softening into a warm, paternal smile.
“Good morning, Vivian,” Arthur said softly, his eyes taking in her pale complexion and the dark circles beneath her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired, Arthur,” she admitted, stepping onto the porch. “But better than yesterday.”
“Good. The locksmith is already resetting the master security panel,” Arthur said, handing her a sleek digital keycard. “The house code has been wiped. The perimeter gates are locked. Mr. Vale’s access privileges have been permanently revoked across all Mercer properties.”
“Did he come back last night?” Vivian asked.
“He attempted to return at three in the morning,” Arthur replied smoothly, pulling a thin tablet from his leather briefcase. “He was... highly intoxicated. He tried to force the front gate open with his SUV. My security personnel intercepted him and called the local police.”
Vivian’s heart sank slightly. “Was he arrested?”
“He was taken to the station to sober up,” Arthur said, showing her the incident report on his tablet screen. “No formal charges were filed yet, per my instructions, but a temporary restraining order has been issued by the magistrate. He cannot come within five hundred feet of you, Oliver, or this estate.”
Vivian took a deep breath, the cool morning air filling her lungs. “Thank you, Arthur.”
“There is one more thing, my dear,” Arthur said, his tone turning cautious and solemn. “While reviewing the joint bank accounts and credit lines this morning to prepare the asset separation files, my accounting team flagged several unusual transactions made over the past six months.”
Vivian frowned. “What kind of transactions?”
Arthur adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Large cash withdrawals totaling over eighty thousand dollars, routed through a secondary shell company registered in Delaware. And... several high-end jewelry purchases made at Tiffany & Co. in downtown Chicago.”
Vivian felt a cold prickle at the back of her neck. “I’ve never owned anything from Tiffany’s.”
“I suspected as much,” Arthur said grimly. “The shipping address for those purchases was not this house, Vivian. They were delivered to an apartment downtown. An apartment leased under the name of Miss Lena Hart.”
Vivian stood frozen on the porch, holding her sleeping child as the cool wind whipped her hair across her face.
Eighty thousand dollars stolen from their family account. Diamond jewelry bought while she was lying in a hospital bed, risking her life to bring Adrian’s child into the world.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. The time for tears had burned away in the living room the night before.
“Arthur,” Vivian said, her voice dropping into an ice-cold register that reminded the old lawyer instantly of her formidable late grandfather.
“Yes, Vivian?”
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“I want a full forensic audit of every financial document Adrian Vale has touched since the day we married.”
Arthur smiled—a cold, sharp edge showing behind his professional demeanor. “It will be my absolute pleasure.”
