I looked directly into her eyes.
“Oh, I intend to.”
For half a second, something flickered across her face.
Not triumph.
Fear.
Then it disappeared.
That night Naomi called me.
“I found Northstar.”
“And?”
“It was incorporated seven months ago.”
“By Brittany?”
“Technically.”
“Technically?”
“The documents use her name, Social Security number, and electronic signature.”
“So she owns it.”
“Maybe.”
That word made my pulse jump.
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“The IP address used to submit the incorporation documents traces to Carter Global headquarters.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“No.
But this helps.”
She sent me a document.
Employee access logs.
On the afternoon Northstar had been created, Brittany’s ID badge showed her entering a client event in Boston.
Three hundred kilometers away.
I stared at the screen.
“She couldn’t have filed it.”
“Correct.”
“Michael?”
“Someone inside the executive office.”
A cold understanding began forming.
Brittany wasn’t simply receiving corporate money.
Someone might be using her identity to receive it.
Then Naomi said something worse.
“Claire, I checked the destination accounts.”
“And?”
“Most of the Northstar money doesn’t stay there.”
“Where does it go?”
“Three holding companies.
Cayman Islands, Singapore, Luxembourg.”
I sat very still.
“How much total?”
“Northstar is only one vendor.”
My throat tightened.
“How many?”
“Eleven that I’ve identified.”
“And how much money?”
Silence.
“Naomi.”
“Forty-seven million dollars.”
I stopped breathing.
“Forty-seven?”
“And rising.”
This was no affair scandal.
This was organized theft.
And Michael was at the center of it.
Then Naomi added:
“There’s something else.
Someone accessed your trust documents three weeks ago.”
My stomach turned.
“Whose credentials?”
“Ryan Hale’s.”
Ryan had been my investigator for seven years.
He knew where I banked.
He knew my attorneys.
He knew the terms of the Whitmore Trust.
He knew nearly everything Michael would need to know about removing me from power.
I closed my eyes.
Then I remembered a conversation six months earlier.
Michael and I had fought over a proposed merger.
He wanted Carter Global to acquire a European competitor called Valken Freight.
I had refused to support it.
Too much debt.
Too many job cuts.
The acquisition required approval from shareholders controlling fifty-one percent of voting stock.
Michael had forty-three percent committed.
My thirty-four percent made the deal impossible.
Unless I was removed as trustee.
The Whitmore Trust contained one unusual clause my father had insisted on.
If the trustee committed a serious act that created substantial financial or reputational harm to Carter Global, an emergency panel could suspend the trustee pending judicial review.
At the time, everyone considered it meaningless.
Now it looked like a loaded gun.
And suddenly Brittany’s photographs felt different.
Her taunts.
The vow renewal.
The company recipients.
The public setting.
The expense records Ryan had conveniently delivered.
Someone wanted me to explode.
Someone wanted me to distribute confidential employee information throughout the company.
Someone wanted me angry enough to make a reckless accusation before verifying the evidence.
Someone wanted three hundred witnesses.
Michael wasn’t merely having an affair.
He was building a case against me.
I looked at the distribution list containing 127 names.
Then slowly deleted it.
And created another email.
This one had only six recipients.
