It was. She never denied it. Beatrice had registered B.H. Interiors last winter, after Adrian gave her his login to my company’s vendor portal so she could “help with paperwork.” Every payment was small enough to slip past a routine review. Together, they added up to $187,000. Most of it had paid off the family’s private loans. Some of it had paid for Tiffany’s car.

Adrian swore he didn’t know what she was doing with it, and the bank records eventually proved he was telling the truth about that much. But he had handed over the login, and he had taken my Platinum card from a locked drawer. Elena, who had been waiting in my study, laid the divorce papers on the coffee table beside the bank report. Then she showed Beatrice a copy of my grandfather’s trust, with my name as the only beneficiary.

Beatrice searched those pages for her name and found it nowhere. This had never been their house. Her hands shook. Tiffany burst into tears and asked who would pay for her car now. Adrian simply sat down on the stairs and stared at the floor. Gerald, who had stayed quiet for four years, finally spoke. He apologized to me, picked up his own suitcase, and told his wife he would be staying at his brother’s until he decided what came next.

I gave them one hour to collect their belongings, with two security guards watching. The divorce was final in five months. Rather than face fraud charges, Beatrice agreed to repay the full $187,000 by selling her jewelry and the family’s lake cabin. Adrian repaid every dollar he charged in Aspen. I kept my company, my name, and my grandfather’s house. And for the first time in four years, the only voice in it was mine.