PART 3 — THE SIGNATURE THAT COULD SEND HIM TO PRISON
I didn't sleep that night.
Not because I was afraid of Damian.
But because one sentence kept repeating in my mind.
“You told me she was practically dead.”
Chloe had said those words without thinking.
And Damian's reaction had told me everything.
He hadn't expected me to survive.
At 2:14 in the morning, I walked into my father's old study.
The room smelled exactly the same.
Leather.
Wood.
Dust.
Memories.
On the desk sat the documents Harold had given me.
I opened the folder again.
The $180 million loan agreement.
The forged signature.
The property transfer.
Then I noticed something I had missed earlier.
A date.
Six weeks before my artery ruptured.
My hands went cold.
Six weeks.
Damian had arranged the loan long before I became sick.
Which meant one thing.
My illness hadn't been the beginning of his plan.
It had been part of it.
* * *
At 7:00 a.m., I called Harold.
He answered immediately.
“Tell me you found something.”
“I did.”
His voice became serious.
“What?”
“The loan agreement was signed six weeks before my surgery.”
There was silence.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“That changes everything.”
“How?”
“Because if Damian obtained the loan before your medical emergency, then we may be looking at premeditated financial fraud.”
I swallowed.
“There's more.”
I turned the pages.
“Look at the beneficiary.”
“I already did.”
“No.”
I pointed to the account number.
“Look at where the money went.”
Harold was silent for several seconds.
Then he said something that made my stomach drop.
“That isn't Chloe's company.”
“What?”
“The company listed there is called Prescott Meridian Holdings.”
I stared at the page.
“That name…”
“Was created by your father.”
My heart began pounding.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
Harold lowered his voice.
“And according to the records, your father never dissolved it.”
I stood up.
“Where is the company registered?”
“Delaware.”
“Who controls it?”
“That’s the strange part.”
He paused.
“According to the current filing…”
“It’s you?”
“No.”
His voice became almost a whisper.
“Samantha, it's Damian.”
* * *
I couldn't breathe.
Damian controlled a company bearing my family's name.
A company I had never heard of.
A company that had received millions of dollars.
Money secured against my house.
My inheritance.
My father's legacy.
“Harold,” I said slowly.
“Yes?”
“Did my father ever tell you about Prescott Meridian Holdings?”
“No.”
“Then why would Damian control it?”
“I don't know.”
I closed my eyes.
Then another thought struck me.
“Find the original incorporation documents.”
“Already requested.”
“How long?”
“An hour.”
“Call me when you have them.”
I hung up.
Then my phone rang.
Paige.
“Sam, you need to see this.”
“What?”
“I found something on Damian's laptop.”
I froze.
“How did you get into it?”
“The movers found it in the study.”
“Paige.”
“I know. But you need to see this.”
She sent me a photograph.
It was a spreadsheet.
Hundreds of transactions.
Dates.
Amounts.
Names.
And one column repeated over and over.
S.P. Medical Expenses.
I stared at the screen.
My medical expenses?
Then I noticed the amounts.
$42,000.
$68,000.
$91,000.
Payments had been made to private clinics.
Specialists.
A cardiology center.
Six weeks before my artery ruptured.
My blood went cold.
“Paige.”
“Yes?”
“Call Harold.”
“I already did.”
“What did he say?”
“He said not to open anything else until he arrives.”
I stared at the spreadsheet.
Too late.
Because I had already seen enough.
Someone had been paying doctors.
Doctors who had access to my medical information.
Doctors who knew about my condition.
Doctors who apparently knew something I didn't.
* * *
Harold arrived forty minutes later.
He brought two investigators with him.
One was a forensic accountant.
The other was a former federal prosecutor.
They examined the laptop in silence.
Finally, the prosecutor looked up.
“This isn't an ordinary fraud case.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What is it?”
He pointed to the spreadsheet.
“These payments were made before your medical emergency.”
“I know.”
“But they're labeled as medical expenses.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Did you know you had a heart condition?”
“No.”
“Did Damian?”
“I don't know.”
The investigator opened another file.
“We found encrypted messages.”
My chest tightened.
“Between whom?”
“We don't know yet.”
He turned the screen toward me.
One message was dated seven weeks before my surgery.
Is the wife still unaware?
Another message appeared beneath it.
Yes. The doctors say she won't know until it's too late.
I couldn't move.
My fingers became numb.
“Who sent that?”
“We're tracing the account.”
“And who received it?”
“We believe the account belonged to Damian.”
The room went silent.
Then another message appeared.
Once the property is secured, she becomes unnecessary.
My vision blurred.
For three years, I had believed Damian had simply fallen out of love with me.
I thought he had betrayed me for Chloe.
I thought the wedding was the worst thing he had done.
I was wrong.
The wedding wasn't the beginning.
It was the final step.
He hadn't wanted a divorce.
He hadn't wanted freedom.
He had wanted my death.
Because a dead wife couldn't challenge a forged signature.
A dead wife couldn't reclaim $180 million.
A dead wife couldn't expose him.
I covered my mouth.
Tears finally came.
Not from heartbreak.
From realization.
Harold placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Samantha, we need to get you somewhere safe.”
I wiped my face.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“No?”
I closed the laptop.
“I'm not running.”
“You don't understand how dangerous this is.”
“I understand perfectly.”
I stood.
“Damian thought I was dead once.”
I looked toward the window.
“He made the mistake of celebrating too early.”
Then I turned back to Harold.
“Now I want him to believe I'm still unaware.”
The prosecutor frowned.
“What are you planning?”
I smiled for the first time that morning.
“I'm going to give Damian exactly what he expects.”
“A frightened woman?”
“No.”
I picked up my phone.
“A woman who still loves him.”
Everyone in the room stared at me.
Because they didn't understand.
But Damian would.
And if my plan worked…
He would come back to me.
He would confess.
He would reveal everything.
And this time, I wouldn't be lying on an operating table.
He would be standing in a courtroom.
Waiting to hear his sentence.
But before I could put the plan into motion, my phone suddenly rang.
The caller ID showed a number I hadn't seen in five years.
My father's old private line.
I answered.
A man's voice whispered:
“Samantha Prescott?”
“Yes.”
“You don't know me.”
“Who are you?”
He took a shaky breath.
“But I know what happened to your father.”
I froze.
“What did you say?”
“Your father didn't die the way you were told.”
My heart stopped.
“What are you talking about?”
The stranger whispered six words that changed everything.
“Your father was murdered by Damian.”
Then the line went dead.
