Who was Beau Kingsley, really. And what would happen now that the truth had stepped inside the house they used to control.
The drive through Savannah felt endless. Streetlights flickered across the windshield. My reflection looked like a stranger. Beau drove with practiced precision, not uttering a word until we reached a stoplight where the red glow washed his face in a muted crimson.
“I am sorry,” I whispered. Hearing my voice out loud surprised me. “I did not want you to see any of that.”
His eyes met mine. “Selena, you have been shielding them for years. That ends today.”
He did not take me to a mall or a salon. He drove Downtown, to a penthouse overlooking the river. It was elegant but not ostentatious. High ceilings, white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows with linen curtains. It was the first place in a long time that felt like it was allowed to be quiet.
Our story was not made of magic and perfection. We met six years ago. I worked as an administrative assistant for a consulting firm. He never introduced himself as the president of Kingsley Ventures, a conglomerate with investments in renewable energy and architecture. We married at a courthouse with no one to witness the event except two strangers who were also filing paperwork. We kept it secret. I wanted my achievements to be mine. I feared my family would sink their claws into him the way they sank them into everything else I touched.
“Your mother crossed ethical lines,” Beau said when I sat on the sofa shaking slightly. “And not only in how she treated you.”
The next morning, Troy’s wedding unfolded without me. My mother no doubt crafted a tale explaining my absence in a way that cast her as the victim. Meanwhile, Beau made calls. He arranged audits. He pulled records. He found evidence of my mother using my identity as collateral for hidden loans. He discovered Troy had been accepting funds funneled through shell accounts that indirectly tied back to Kingsley Ventures. Neither of them realized the money they leaned on was not theirs to take.
“They played you like a resource,” Beau said gently. “No more.”
Letters arrived at my mother’s house. Formal notices. Bank claims. Cease and desist orders. The illusions cracked like glass.
