My stomach tightened.
“What does it do?”
“If signed, it would transfer management authority over certain assets received from your trust to HV Family Strategies.”
“Adrian’s company?”
“Effectively.”
“I would never sign that.”
“That may not have been their first plan.”
A cold sensation moved across my shoulders.
“What does that mean?”
“There are scanned copies of your signature.”
I sat down.
“From where?”
“Tax returns. Property documents. Charitable filings.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
Daniel continued.
“There are several practice versions.”
“Practice?”
“Someone appears to have been testing how closely they could reproduce it.”
I closed my eyes.
“And Victoria moving in?”
“We found emails about creating a ‘unified household structure’ before your distribution date.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds like Victoria.”
“It gets worse.”
“What?”
“They discussed documenting you as emotionally unstable.”
The room changed temperature.
“What?”
“Adrian has been telling people for months that you’re having episodes. Forgetfulness. Mood swings. Paranoia.”
I thought of dinners where he had corrected me.
You already told them that story, Eleanor.
Except I hadn’t.
Times he claimed I forgot appointments.
Times Victoria asked if I was sleeping.
Times Adrian poured wine for everyone, then commented on how much I had supposedly consumed.
“He’s creating a history.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Possibly to pressure you into signing financial authority documents. Possibly more. We don’t know yet.”
I thought about Victoria controlling the kitchen.
The accounts.
The schedule.
My home.
Not domination for domination’s sake.
Witness creation.
If Victoria lived with us, she could describe me every day.
Forgetful Eleanor.
Emotional Eleanor.
Unstable Eleanor.
Difficult Eleanor.
A wealthy woman approaching a massive trust distribution whose husband and mother-in-law were only trying to help.
My skin turned cold.
“Daniel…”
“There is something else.”
“The email chain?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I want Rebecca to see it before you do.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s old.”
“How old?”
“Seven years.”
The length of my marriage.
My fingers went numb.
“Send it.”
“Eleanor—”
“Send it.”
“I already did.”
The doorbell camera notification flashed on my regular phone.
A delivery.
Nothing more.
