Evelyn’s face drained of color. For a fraction of a second, the weeping, hysterical stepmother vanished, replaced by a flash of absolute panic. She lunged forward, swiping at my hand.
“Give me that!” she shrieked.
But she wasn’t fast enough. Marcus caught her wrist in mid-air. His grip was tight, his face unreadable as he stared at his wife.
“Marcus, she’s stealing from us!” Evelyn cried, trying to yank her hand away. “She was going through your safe!”
Marcus ignored her. He looked down at me. “Maya. Give it to me.”
I carefully stood up, my knees trembling, and handed the blue envelope to him.
Keeping Chloe secured on his left hip, Marcus used his right hand to flip the heavy stock envelope open. He pulled out the papers inside.
I already knew what they were. I had read the first two pages before Evelyn caught me in the study.
It was a life insurance policy on Chloe. A massive, staggering policy for ten million dollars. But that wasn’t the part that had made my blood run cold. It was the signature line. Marcus hadn’t signed it. His signature was there, but the pen pressure was completely wrong—shaky, traced. And the sole beneficiary was listed as a shell corporation in the Cayman Islands.
Marcus stared at the paperwork. The silence in the room stretched out, thick and heavy.
I watched the muscles in his jaw clench. I watched his eyes scan the forged signature, then jump to the beneficiary line.
Evelyn was hyperventilating now. “Marcus, it’s not what it looks like,” she stammered, stepping back. “That’s... that’s for her future. Her college trust. I was just organizing the files!”
“A ten-million-dollar life insurance policy,” Marcus said softly. His voice didn’t rise, but the absolute ice in his tone sent a chill down my spine. “On a four-year-old child.”
“It’s standard wealth management!” Evelyn insisted, her voice shrill. “My financial advisor recommended it! Maya doesn’t understand how these things work, she’s just an ignorant girl—”
“I didn’t sign this,” Marcus said.
“You did! Last week, after the gala, you had a lot to drink, maybe you forgot—”
“I don’t drink, Evelyn. Ever since Sarah died, I haven’t touched a drop. You know that.”
Evelyn opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Marcus looked back down at the paper. Then, slowly, he looked up at me. His eyes swept over my bruised shoulder, the way I was holding my arm, the way his daughter was still desperately leaning toward me from his arms.
“Tom!” Marcus suddenly barked, his voice booming across the penthouse.
Moments later, heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. Tom, the head of Marcus’s private security detail, burst into the living room, his hand resting on his radio.
“Sir?” Tom asked, taking in the dropped golf club, Evelyn’s pale face, and my battered state.
“Take Maya into the guest study and call the paramedics,” Marcus ordered. “I want a full medical evaluation of her injuries. Then, call the police.”