“You used our money too?”
“It’s not gone.”
“How much?”
“Camille.”
“How much of our money is in that company?”
He looked exhausted.
“About sixty.”
“Sixty thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Plus Sabrina’s seventy-five?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
He looked away.
My stomach turned.
“Anyone else?”
“Two investors.”
“Who?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
I stared at him.
“My money is mixed into an LLC with other investors and that doesn’t concern me?”
“You don’t understand how this is structured.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can’t do that tonight.”
“You keep saying tonight like morning is going to change the numbers.”
He walked toward the door.
I stepped in front of it.
“Are there loans?”
His eyes flickered.
“Nolan told you to ask that?”
That was my answer.
“What loans?”
“Camille.”
“What loans?”
He exhaled.
“A line of credit.”
“Secured by what?”
“Business assets.”
“What business assets?”
He stared at me.
I felt suddenly dizzy.
“Our house?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“The rental property.”
I went still.
“What rental property?”
He closed his eyes.
My grandmother had left me a small duplex outside Richmond.
I had never lived there.
A management company handled tenants.
The rental income went into an account I rarely touched.
The property was mine before marriage.
Separate.
At least, I thought it was.
“You used my Richmond property?”
“It’s not what you think.”
The room tilted.
“How?”
“Camille.”
“How?”
He sat down.
I remained standing.
“A line of credit was opened using the property as supporting collateral.”
“Supporting collateral?”
“Yes.”
“I never agreed to that.”
“I know.”
The two words barely reached me.
I stared at him.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then how did it happen?”
He looked at the floor.
My mouth went dry.
“You forged my signature again.”
Julian said nothing.
I backed away from him.
For the first time that night, fear replaced anger.
Not fear that he would hurt me.
Fear that I did not know the boundaries of what he had done.
“How many documents?”
“Camille—”
“How many?”
“A few.”
I stared at him.
“What does a few mean?”
“Three.”
“Three?”
He rubbed his hands over his face.
“Maybe four.”
I laughed.
A short, broken sound.
“You don’t even know?”
“I know. I just—”
“Get out.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“Leave the room.”
“This is my house too.”
“Then go sleep in another part of it.”
He stood.
“We can fix the collateral issue.”
“You’re still talking about paperwork.”
“I’m trying to tell you it can be reversed.”
“You used my property.”
“I was going to replace the line after the project closed.”
“You forged my name.”
“I know.”
“You stole my choice.”
His face tightened.
“I was trying to build something for us.”
“For us?”
My voice rose for the first time.
“You told another woman you were going to buy a house with her.”
“That wasn’t real.”
“Which part?”
He stared.
“Our marriage?”
“Camille.”
“Her future?”
Silence.
“The fake divorce?”
More silence.
“Harbor Ridge?”
He looked away.
I opened the bedroom door.
“Get out.”
This time he left.
I did not sleep.
At six in the morning, I froze my credit.
At six-thirty, I downloaded every bank statement I could access.
At seven, I changed the passwords on my personal accounts.
At seven-fifteen, Sabrina texted.
Are you okay?
I stared at the question.
Then replied.
No. Are you?
She responded almost immediately.
No.
I hesitated.
Then typed:
Did Julian ever mention my Richmond property?
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
Yes.
I sat straighter.
What did he say?
Her reply took longer.
That it was his.
My fingers went cold.
Then another message arrived.
He said he was selling it after the divorce.
I closed my eyes.
A third message.
Camille, what did he do?
I called her.
