Margaux glared at him, venomous. “Don’t you dare be weak right now.”
“You attended every single finance meeting for eighteen months,” I said. “Your initials are sitting right next to the altered projections.”
Marcus opened a second folder. “There are also recordings.”
Three weeks earlier, right after I’d questioned a suspicious wire payment out loud, Julian had met Margaux privately in the estate library. The home security system — the one they’d installed themselves, ironically — had recorded the entire conversation: the two of them discussing, in plain terms, how marrying me would eventually give the Ashworth family access to what they assumed was a modest personal trust of mine. Margaux had suggested persuading me to transfer the funds early, then quietly divorcing me once the Meridian loans finally closed.
My trust wasn’t modest. It held the controlling voting block of Ferro Capital in its entirety. They’d planned to use me as a financial instrument and, in their own carelessness, documented every step of that intention for me.
Marcus played the recording through the terrace speakers. Julian’s voice filled the space first:
“Once she signs off, she can just go back to her sad little parents.”
Then Margaux’s voice, right behind it:
“Not before the honeymoon, darling. Keep her cooperative until then.”
My mother’s hand flew to cover her mouth. My father seemed to age five years in the span of five seconds.
