Julian looked toward the window.
I almost couldn’t believe the question that came next.
“How much did she tell you?”
I laughed once.
There it was.
Not denial.
Damage assessment.
“How much is there to tell?”
“Camille.”
“Is my signature fake?”
He sat down.
I stayed standing.
“Answer.”
“Yes.”
The word landed quietly.
It was worse that way.
“Did you create that document?”
He looked at the counter.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To get her off my back.”
“You forged a divorce decree to convince your girlfriend that your wife no longer existed.”
“It wasn’t filed anywhere.”
“That’s your defense?”
“I’m saying it wasn’t used legally.”
“You sent it to someone as proof.”
“I know.”
I stared at him.
For seven years, Julian had slept beside me.
He knew how I took coffee.
He knew I hated the sound of cabinet doors slamming.
He knew I always forgot umbrellas.
He knew exactly how to calm me when I was anxious.
And apparently, somewhere inside that same man existed the ability to manufacture a legal document with my name and signature because lying had become inconvenient.
I sat across from him.
“What is Harbor Ridge Development?”
His head lifted.
The color drained from his face.
I felt something inside me go cold.
“That bad?”
“Camille.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a project entity.”
“For what project?”
“A potential acquisition.”
“Where?”
“Hilton Head.”
“With Sabrina?”
“No.”
“She invested seventy-five thousand dollars.”
His jaw tightened.
“She had an opportunity to participate.”
“In your fake future together?”
“That wasn’t how it happened.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing that isn’t recoverable.”
That wording caught me.
“Recoverable?”
He looked away.
“Where is her money?”
“Invested.”
“In what?”
“I told you.”
“No, you gave me words.”
I leaned forward.
“Where is the money?”
Julian stood.
“I’m not discussing business finances while you’re angry.”
