Chapter 3 - The Account
I heard her.
So did Diane.
Her face changed instantly.
“Brooke.”
It was one word.
A warning.
Brooke pressed her lips together.
The officers escorted Grant and Ryan toward the elevator.
Ryan twisted around once.
“Claire, don’t do anything stupid.”
I almost laughed again.
He had just been arrested for helping his father assault his pregnant wife.
Yet he still believed I was the dangerous one.
When the elevator doors closed, the penthouse became strangely quiet.
Diane began collecting her purse.
“We’re leaving.”
I looked at Brooke.
“What account?”
She avoided my eyes.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You just asked your mother about an account.”
Diane grabbed her daughter’s arm.
“She’s upset.”
“So am I.”
Diane reached the elevator.
I stepped between her and the call button.
She stared at me.
“You cannot imprison us.”
“I’m not.”
I moved aside.
“But you are not coming back into this home.”
Her mouth opened.
I continued.
“Neither is Grant.”
“Neither is Ryan.”
That finally rattled her.
“You cannot lock your husband out of his own home.”
“It isn’t his.”
“He lives here.”
“He lived here because I allowed him to.”
Diane’s voice dropped.
“You think that paper makes you powerful?”
“No.”
I touched my stomach.
“This did.”
For the first time that night, she looked at the burned place on my sweater.
Then she looked away.
Brooke seemed less certain.
Her eyes kept moving toward the office.
I noticed.
After they left, I locked the elevator through the building’s owner portal and called the twenty-four-hour obstetric line.
Within thirty minutes, I was in a private examination room at St. Vincent Medical Center.
The doctor checked the baby.
Heart rate normal.
Movement normal.
No sign of contractions.
The burn was superficial.
Painful.
But the baby was safe.
I cried only after the nurse left.
Not because of the burn.
Because I had heard the heartbeat.
Strong.
Fast.
Alive.
My attorney, Maya Ortiz, arrived shortly after one in the morning.
She had been my lawyer before she became my friend.
When I told her about Brooke’s comment, she stopped writing.
“What account?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does Ryan have access to your personal finances?”
“Only the household account.”
“Your investment accounts?”
“No.”
“Company equity?”
“No.”
“Trusts?”
“No.”
She studied me.
“Claire, when was the last time you independently reviewed every account connected to your Social Security number?”
The answer embarrassed me.
“Maybe a year.”
Maya closed her notebook.
“We’re checking tonight.”
From the hospital bed, I opened my banking application.
Checking.
Savings.
Brokerage.
Everything looked normal.
Then Maya told me to open my credit report.
My stomach dropped.
There was a business line of credit I had never seen.
Maximum limit.
Nine hundred thousand dollars.
Current balance.
Eight hundred seventy-four thousand.
Authorized guarantor.
Claire Bennett.
I stared at the screen.
“I never signed for this.”
Maya leaned closer.
The account had been opened eight months earlier.
The listed business name made my blood turn cold.
BENNETT-RYAN HOSPITALITY GROUP.
May you like
I had never heard of it.
But the mailing address belonged to Grant.
