I reached for my water glass with a hand I refused to let shake. “Before I sign anything,” I said quietly, “I’d like to introduce you to my attorney.” Trevor laughed. “Eleanor, sweetheart, you don’t have an attorney. You have a therapist and a Pinterest board.” That’s when the door to the sitting room opened. Marguerite Delacroix walked in — silver hair, charcoal suit, the woman who’d buried three Fortune 500 CEOs in divorce court. Behind her came my brother Daniel, holding a slim leather binder. Trevor’s smile cracked. “What is this?” “This,” Marguerite said, setting the binder down, “is a forensic accounting of the funds you moved out of Mrs. Whitfield-Kane’s inherited trust between 2019 and last month. Eight hundred and forty thousand dollars. Wired through a shell company registered to your assistant, Bethany.” Trevor’s bourbon glass hit the table too hard. “That trust was joint—” “It was never joint,” I said. “Grandfather’s lawyers made sure of that. You forged my signature, Trevor. Forty-seven times.” Daniel opened the binder. Bank statements. Notarized handwriting analyses. A signed affidavit from Bethany, who’d apparently grown tired of being the fall girl. “As for my ‘breakdown,'” I continued, voice steady, “I brought those photographs to Dr. Pearlman this morning. She’s prepared to testify that what you documented wasn’t instability — it was a grieving mother being psychologically tormented by her husband. She has the texts you sent me that week. All of them.” Trevor stood, knuckles white against the table. “Eleanor, listen—” “The board already knows,” Marguerite said pleasantly. “They voted at noon. You were removed as CFO three hours ago. Security cleaned out your office while you were pouring that drink.” I slid the divorce papers across the table toward him — my version, drafted by Marguerite. “Sign them, Trevor. Or I’ll make sure the jury hears about your little ‘insurance’ folder.” For the first time in nine years, his hands were the ones that shook.
