One who signed things the real Camille would never have signed.
My husband had created a fictional version of me that existed wherever he needed permission.
That realization hurt in a way Sabrina never could.
I returned home around four.
Julian was waiting.
He stood when I entered.
“Where were you?”
“With my attorney.”
His face hardened.
“I told you we could fix this.”
“You told me the line was limited.”
“It is.”
“One hundred eighty thousand has been drawn.”
He went pale.
“How do you know that?”
I stared at him.
“Is that really the question you want to ask?”
He sat slowly.
I remained near the door.
“Where is the money?”
He looked down.
“Distributed.”
“To what?”
“Project expenses.”
“What project?”
“Harbor Ridge.”
“The parcel was sold to another company.”
His head snapped up.
“How do you know that?”
“Sabrina checked.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
I watched him.
“Explain.”
“It was a contract assignment.”
“What does that mean?”
“We had a purchase position.”
“Had?”
“We were going to acquire the property.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Then it sold to someone else.”
“Yes.”
“Did Harbor Ridge profit from assigning its position?”
He hesitated.
“A little.”
“How much?”
“Forty.”
“Forty thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Then where is the rest?”
“Other deals.”
I almost laughed again.
“Which deals?”
“Camille, you won’t understand them.”
That sentence ended something inside me.
For years, I had accepted versions of it.
Real estate is complicated.
Tax structure is complicated.
Commercial financing is complicated.
You wouldn’t enjoy the details.
I had mistaken condescension for expertise.
Now I understood why Julian preferred me uninformed.
“Try me.”
He looked exhausted.
“I don’t have every number in front of me.”
“Then get them.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He stood.
“I’m not opening business records for you.”
I stared at him.
“Then you can explain them through attorneys.”
“Camille.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“We can still recover from this.”
“What is this?”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Define this.”
“Our problems.”
I nodded slowly.
“My problem is that my husband has a girlfriend.”
“I ended it.”
“My problem is that my husband told his girlfriend I lived in another state.”
“I know.”
“My problem is that he created a fake divorce decree.”
“I know.”
“My problem is that he took seventy thousand from our savings.”
“I know.”
“My problem is that he forged my signature to borrow against my separate property.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“My problem is that one hundred eighty thousand dollars is missing.”
“It’s not missing.”
“Then tell me where it is.”
He looked away.
I waited.
Nothing.
“That’s what I thought.”
I walked upstairs.
This time I did not sleep in the guest room.
I packed.
Julian appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“Where?”
“Not your concern.”
“Camille.”
I folded a sweater.
“We need to talk.”
“We have talked.”
“Not about us.”
I stopped.
“There is no us conversation until the money conversation makes sense.”
His face twisted.
“So that’s what this is about?”
I stared at him.
“The money?”
“Yes.”
I almost admired his ability to sound offended.
“You think I’m leaving because of money?”
“You keep talking about finances.”
“Because finances leave records.”
He went silent.
“Affairs rely on stories.”
I zipped the suitcase.
“Money tells me what you actually planned.”
His expression changed.
That was the first moment I knew I had found the right question.
Not who Sabrina was.
Not why Julian cheated.
Not even why he forged the divorce.
What had he been planning?
I stayed with Nolan and his wife, Claire, near Charleston for three nights.
On the fourth morning, Sabrina called.
Her voice sounded different.
“You need to see something.”
“What?”
“I met with my cousin.”
“About Harbor Ridge?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“There are four investors.”
“I know Julian mentioned two others.”
