PART 4
My father stared at the message on my phone for almost ten seconds.
Then he looked at my mother.
“Who else knows about that property?”
My mother didn’t answer.
That frightened me more than anything that had happened at the wedding.
“Mom?”
She slowly sat down on the bench outside the ballroom.
My father closed the doors behind us.
The music from the reception became muffled.
The laughter disappeared.
For the first time that night, the three of us were completely alone.
“What second property?” I asked.
My mother looked at me.
“It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
She nodded.
“Your father and I bought it for you two years ago.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“It isn’t in Manhattan.”
“Where is it?”
My father answered this time.
“Connecticut.”
I blinked.
“Connecticut?”
“A small estate outside Greenwich.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“How much?”
My father hesitated.
“About eight million dollars.”
I actually laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because my brain couldn’t process it.
“You bought an eight-million-dollar property and never told me?”
“It was meant to be placed into a trust for you.”
“Why?”
My mother looked at me.
“Because we wanted you to have somewhere that was completely yours.”
I shook my head.
“And Mark knew?”
“No.”
“Diane?”
My father answered immediately.
“No.”
“Then who sent that message?”
Nobody spoke.
My phone vibrated again.
This time, there was a photograph.
I opened it.
My blood ran cold.
It showed the Connecticut property.
Taken from across the road.
The message beneath it said:
THEY’RE ALREADY THERE.
My father stood.
“We’re leaving.”
We drove in silence.
My father drove.
My mother sat beside him.
I sat in the back, still wearing my wedding dress.
I kept staring at the photograph.
The house in the picture looked peaceful.
White stone.
Black shutters.
Tall trees surrounding it.
A long driveway.
It was beautiful.
And apparently someone had been watching it.
After nearly two hours, we reached the property.
My father stopped the car before the gate.
The security lights were on.
My mother looked at me.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Sophie—”
“No.”
I opened the door.
“If someone is inside my property, I’m going with you.”
My father didn’t argue.
We walked toward the gate.
The keypad had been damaged.
The camera above it was hanging sideways.
My father cursed under his breath.
We entered.
The house looked untouched from the outside.
But the front door was unlocked.
My father pushed it open.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
We entered.
The lights were off.
My mother reached for my hand.
Then we heard a sound upstairs.
A drawer opening.
My father immediately called the police.
We waited in the foyer.
Seconds later, footsteps came from above.
Someone ran.
My father shouted.
“Stop!”
A man appeared at the top of the staircase.
He looked at us.
Then jumped over the railing onto the lower landing and sprinted toward the back door.
My father chased him.
I froze.
My mother grabbed my arm.
“Don’t!”
We heard the back door slam.
Then silence.
A few minutes later, my father returned.
He was breathing heavily.
“He got away.”
The police arrived shortly afterward.
They searched the house.
Nothing valuable appeared to be missing.
But they found something in the upstairs office.
A laptop.
Three folders.
And a printer.
My father stared at the equipment.
“This isn’t burglary.”
The police officer nodded.
“Looks more like someone was collecting information.”
One of the folders contained copies of property records.
The second contained photographs of me.
Leaving work.
Entering restaurants.
Getting into my car.
Walking into my apartment building.
I felt sick.
The third folder contained something worse.
Documents related to my upcoming marriage.
My wedding schedule.
My travel plans.
Copies of my financial records.
And a list.
At the top were the words:
POST-MARRIAGE ASSET ACQUISITION PLAN
I couldn’t breathe.
My mother closed her eyes.
My father took the document.
He read it.
His face became harder with every line.
The plan was detailed.
Step one: marriage.
Step two: convince Sophie to combine financial accounts.
Step three: persuade her to refinance the Tribeca property.
Step four: use marital income and assets to stabilize family debt.
Step five: obtain control of the Greenwich property.
Step six: liquidate selected assets.
Step seven: transfer ownership through a family holding company.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
She trusts Mark completely.
I stared at those words.
That sentence hurt more than everything else.
Because it had once been true.
I had trusted him completely.
The police took the documents as evidence.
But one page remained behind.
A single sheet.
On it was a list of names.
Mark.
Diane.
Richard Vale.
And someone else.
A name I recognized immediately.
My wedding attorney.
I felt the room spin.
“No.”
My father looked at me.
“What?”
“My attorney.”
“What about him?”
“He prepared our prenup.”
My mother took the paper.
