The betrayal hurt before I even understood it.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Then what is she talking about?”
He looked toward my mother.
She smiled.
Daniel exhaled.
“I turned on the tablet.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“You what?”
Three nights earlier.
The notification.
The discovery.
The entire chain of events.
I stepped away from him.
“You told me it was an accident.”
“I never said that.”
“No.
You let me think it.”
“Elena—”
“Why?”
My mother was enjoying this.
Of course she was.
If she couldn’t destroy me herself, she would leave poison behind.
Daniel reached into his jacket.
I tensed.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
It looked old.
Very old.
“I found this six months ago.”
He handed it to me.
I didn’t take it.
“What is it?”
“Your father’s handwriting.”
My mother stopped smiling.
Daniel continued.
“My father was Jonathan’s attorney before Rebecca took over the estate work.”
I knew that.
Daniel’s father, Michael Reed, had died the year before we became engaged.
“He kept certain personal records,” Daniel said.
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed.
“What records?”
“Letters.”
He unfolded the page.
“After Dad died, I went through his study.
There was a sealed envelope addressed to me.”
Mother suddenly stepped forward.
“You had no right.”
Daniel looked at her.
“That letter was written to my father.”
He handed the paper to me.
My father’s handwriting covered the page.
I recognized it instantly.
Elena,
If you are reading this, then things have gone further than I hoped.
Your mother loves power more than she understands love itself.
I read the sentence twice.
My vision blurred.
The ballroom was utterly silent.
Daniel continued.
“Your father suspected financial irregularities before he died.”
I looked at Mother.
She had gone completely still.
“He couldn’t prove them,” Daniel said.
“So he asked my father to watch the trust.”
Rebecca took the letter.
Her eyes moved quickly.
Then she looked at Victoria.
“Oh my God.”
Mother whispered, “Jonathan was paranoid.”
Rebecca ignored her.
Daniel turned back to me.
“My father died before he could investigate further.
I didn’t know whether the warning still mattered.
Then six months ago, I noticed your mother asking strange questions about when the trust transferred.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I had a letter and suspicions.
That’s all.”
“So you watched her?”
“I watched the trust.”
“You watched my family.”
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt.
“I checked the old tablet when I remembered you still had it.
The account was disconnected.
Three nights ago, I reconnected it.”
My throat tightened.
“So the email didn’t accidentally appear.”
“No.”
“You made sure I saw it.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
The man I loved.
My husband.
The one person I believed had never manipulated me.
