The agreement stated clearly that all financial instruments established under my authority would remain mine. The language was precise. It had been drafted by professionals who knew exactly what they were doing. Conrad signed without comment.
At the exact moment my signature became final, Conrad was hosting a rehearsal dinner in a hotel ballroom overlooking Lake Michigan. Brianna stood beside him in ivory silk, smiling for photos, toasting a future she believed was secure.
The first alert came as the champagne was poured.
Declined.
Then another.
Then a third.
Servers paused. A manager approached. Conrad laughed it off at first, reaching for another card. That one failed too.
His phone rang. It was me.
“Felicity,” he said, lowering his voice as he stepped away from the table. “Something is wrong with the accounts.”
“I know,” I replied calmly. “You should read page eleven of the agreement you signed today.”
There was a pause long enough for me to imagine his expression changing. The confidence draining. The realization arriving too late.
“What did you do,” he asked.
“I reclaimed what was never yours,” I said.