Patricia’s hand trembled around her pearls. Celeste’s glass tilted, spilling champagne onto the Persian rug. Adrian’s smile faltered, then returned — thinner, sharper.
Victor turned to me. “Explain.”
I shifted my son’s weight against my chest. His tiny breath warmed my collarbone. “Every month, you wired support through the family trust. But the trust was redirected.”
“Redirected?”
“Into shell accounts under Elaine’s management. Adrian signed the authorizations.”
Elaine’s face went pale. “That’s absurd.”
I reached into my coat pocket and handed Victor a folder — thin, worn, but heavy with truth.
Inside were copies of transfers, signatures, and timestamps. Each document bore the same initials: A.H.
Adrian Holloway.
Victor’s jaw tightened. “You had access to these?”
