Chapter 2 - THE SILVER TONGUE OF DECEIT
I watched Beatrice’s eyes flicker toward the folder,
like a vulture spotting a fresh carcass.
She reached out her hand,
expecting me to slide the documents across the table.
Marcus took a step forward,
his posture relaxing,
believing he had successfully manipulated his grieving wife.
“I’m glad you’re being sensible, Camila,”
he said,
his voice dripping with a false warmth that made my skin crawl.
“Family is all we have in this world.”
I looked at him,
truly looked at him,
and wondered how I had ever mistaken his weakness for kindness.
“Family,”
I repeated,
letting the word hang in the air like a bitter scent.
“Is that what you call it when you wait for a woman’s mother to die,”
“just to pick the pockets of her ghost?”
Beatrice’s smile vanished,
replaced by a sharp,
defensive sneer.
“Don’t be dramatic, girl.”
“You have more money than you could ever spend.”
“Sebastian is in real trouble.”
“People are looking for him.”
“Dangerous people.”
I leaned back against the table,
the cold wood pressing into my palms.
“And who brought those dangerous people to his door?”
“Was it my mother?”
“Was it me?”
“Or was it Sebastian’s own insatiable greed?”
Marcus sighed,
that long-suffering sound he made whenever I disagreed with him.
“That’s irrelevant now.”
“We need to act fast.”
“The closing on the apartment happened yesterday.”
“I know the funds hit your account this morning.”
I tapped my fingers on the folder,
the sound rhythmic and steady.
“You’ve been tracking my bank account, Marcus?”
He hesitated,
his eyes shifting toward his mother.
“I just wanted to make sure everything went smoothly.”
“Liars always have such a specific way of stuttering,”
I said,
my voice dropping to a whisper.
“But you forgot one very important detail.”
“You forgot that my mother was a paralegal for thirty years.”
“She didn't just leave me money.”
“She left me her brain.”
I slowly opened the folder,
revealing the crisp,
white pages inside.
Beatrice leaned in,
expecting to see a check or a wire transfer confirmation.
Instead,
she saw a document with the header of a high-end law firm.
“What is this?”
she hissed.
“Where is the money?”
I pulled out the first sheet and slid it toward her.
“It’s a detailed accounting of every dollar Sebastian has borrowed from us,”
“over the last four years.”
“Every 'loan' for a car.”
“Every 'investment' for a failed restaurant.”
“Every 'emergency' rent payment.”
Beatrice gasped,
staring at the numbers.
“Three hundred thousand dollars,”
I said,
looking at Marcus.
“And that’s just what I have receipts for.”
Marcus turned pale,
his hands trembling in his pockets.
“Camila,
we’re not talking about the past.”
“We’re talking about his life.”
I pulled out the second document.
“Actually,”
I said,
“we’re talking about your life.”
“This is a post-nuptial agreement,”
“signed by you three years ago,”
“when you begged me for the money to save your credit score.”
I pointed to the highlighted clause at the bottom of the page.
“It states that any inheritance I receive,”
“remains my sole and separate property,”
“and is not subject to community property laws.”
The room went deathly silent.
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked,
sounding like a hammer hitting a nail.
Beatrice’s face turned a mottled shade of purple.
“You...
you manipulated my son!”
I laughed,
and it felt like the first breath of air I had taken in months.
“No, Beatrice.”
“I protected myself from a family of thieves.”
“I knew this day would come.”
“I knew that as soon as my mother’s light went out,”
“you would try to strip the copper from the walls.”
Marcus looked at the paper,
then at me,
his eyes full of a pathetic,
unearned rage.
“You’re my wife!”
“You’re supposed to support me!”
“I supported you for six years,”
I countered,
standing up straight.
“I paid the mortgage on this house.”
“I paid for your clothes.”
“I even paid for the wine your mother is currently drinking.”
“But the Upper West Side money?”
“That stays with me.”
“That stays with the woman who earned it.”
Beatrice lunged for the folder,
but I was faster,
snatching it back and clutching it to my chest.
“Get out of my house, Beatrice.”
She looked at Marcus,
waiting for him to assert his dominance,
to take the folder by force.
But he just stood there,
limp and defeated,
crushed by the weight of his own signature.
May you like
“I said,
get out.”
