Damian had been siphoning money for more than a year through shell invoices tied to projects at his architecture firm. Fees for consulting that never happened. Material purchases billed twice. A stream of small transfers routed into Harbor Point, then out again, some toward the loft where he hid Rebecca, some toward speculative real estate buys, and some into a trust he had quietly established in Rebecca’s name three months before asking you for a divorce.
He had not merely cheated.
He had built a future for another woman using money he swore did not exist when you asked whether you could reduce your clinic hours late in the pregnancy.
That night, sitting at your kitchen table under the yellow pool of the pendant light, you stared at the statements until sunrise. Your marriage had already died. But what rose from those pages was something much uglier than infidelity.
It was theft with a wedding registry.
You had taken everything to Michael the next day.
He spent forty-eight hours confirming what you already suspected, then leaned back in his chair and said, “We need to move carefully. If we strike too early, he’ll bury half of this and charm the other half into a new set of lies.”