Chapter 2 - THE GHOSTS OF PALM BEACH
The memory of Palm Beach was a jagged glass in my mind.
Nine months ago,
the sun was too bright,
the air was too salt-heavy,
and my husband was too happy.
He told me he was going to the club for a cigar.
I had followed him,
not because I was suspicious,
but because I had his forgotten medication.
I found him in a cabana,
not with a cigar,
but with Sienna.
She was wearing a swimsuit I had picked out for our anniversary trip.
I didn't scream then.
I didn't throw the pills at them.
I stood behind a palm tree and watched him hand her a folder.
That folder didn't look like love letters.
It looked like corporate bonds.
I went back to the hotel,
sat on the edge of the bed,
and realized that my heart was no longer the primary casualty.
The Whitmore-Bellamy legacy was under attack.
I called Arthur Bell that night.
“I need to see the trust ledger,”
I told him.
“All of it.”
He had been hesitant,
citing Grant’s executive power.
“Grant’s power is a gift from my mother,”
I reminded him.
“And a gift can be reclaimed.”
That was the beginning of my silent war.
I spent nine months playing the fool.
I bought him expensive watches to see which accounts he used to pay the insurance.
I encouraged him to take Sienna to public events.
I wanted him comfortable.
A comfortable man is a sloppy man.
I watched him move money like a shell game.
Five thousand here,
fifty thousand there.
He thought he was siphoning droplets.
He didn't realize I was building a dam.
Now,
standing in the penthouse,
I saw the realization dawning on him.
He had spent nine months building a life with a mistress.
I had spent nine months building a cage for a thief.
Grant finally pulled out a chair.
He sat down heavily,
the arrogance leaking out of him like air from a punctured tire.
Sienna remained standing,
looking small in my robe.
“Explain the Caymans,”
he muttered to Henderson.
“Oh,
it’s much more than just the Caymans,”
Madeleine interjected.
She pulled out a map of wire transfers.
Lines moved from the company payroll to a boutique marketing firm.
A firm that had no office,
no employees,
and only one director.
Sienna Vale.
Sienna looked at the paper,
her face turning ashen.
“Grant told me that was a consulting fee!”
she cried.
“He said it was legal!”
Grant’s silence was the loudest thing in the room.
He had used her as a human shield for his embezzlement.
I leaned back,
crossing my legs.
“You should have read the fine print,
Sienna.”
“He didn't just steal my husband,”
May you like
I added.
“He stole your clean record.”
