It wanted me.
Two minutes later, the bank called.
“Mrs. Wallace,” said a man’s voice. Calm. Serious. “This is Derek Walsh, relationship manager at our downtown branch. We have a wire transfer that’s been flagged for manual review. Compliance requires in-person verification from the primary signatory. You’re listed as the managing member. Are you available to come in this afternoon?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
Caleb called immediately after.
He was furious, pretending it was a glitch. Ordering me to come sign “so he could get back to work.”
He told me, “Do not make a scene. This is my business account. You’re just a name on paper for tax purposes.”
He still thought I was décor.
I called Dana.
“Meet me there,” I said. “He’s trying to move $250,000 to the Caymans. The bank stopped it.”
“I’m on my way,” she snapped. “Do not sign anything until I arrive.”
The bank was a glass-and-steel fortress downtown, all polished floors and quiet tension.
Caleb’s black sedan was already there, parked like the rules didn’t apply to him. Inside the lobby, he was holding court at the customer service desk, laughing with a teller like he was the king of Ridgeport.
When he saw me, he brightened—performative.
“There she is,” he announced loudly. “We’re holding up business.”
He reached for my arm, grip firm.
I stepped out of reach.
Dana walked in beside me like a storm in a blazer.
Caleb’s eyes flicked to her and dismissed her.
Just then, a side door opened, and a man in a gray suit stepped out holding a thick file.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ror?” he asked.
Caleb stepped forward, hand out. “That’s us. Derek, right? Appreciate you—sorry about the confusion. My wife is here to clear the red tape.”
Derek shook his hand briefly, then turned his attention to me.
Not to Caleb.
To me.
“Mrs. Wallace,” Derek said, using my name. “Thank you for coming so quickly. If you’ll follow me, we have matters to review.”
Caleb rolled his eyes. “I’ve got a four o’clock tee time.”
We followed Derek into a glass-walled conference room. Soundproof. Cold air humming. A table that felt like it was designed to extract truth.
Derek sat at the head. Caleb took the chair to his right like ownership was a posture. I sat opposite. Dana placed her briefcase on the table with a heavy thud that made Caleb’s jaw twitch.
“So,” Caleb said, checking his watch. “Where’s the signature line?”
Derek didn’t answer right away.
He placed the folder down and aligned it perfectly with the grain of the table.
The silence stretched.
Caleb’s smile faltered.
“Derek,” he said, sharper. “The paperwork.”
Derek finally looked up.
Not at Caleb.
At me.
“Mrs. Wallace,” Derek said, voice quiet and precise, “before we proceed with any authorizations, there are several irregularities with the Vantage Point LLC account I’m required to bring to your attention.”
“She knows about the account,” Caleb cut in. “She’s the managing member. It’s family holding. Why are you talking to her like she’s a stranger?”
Derek turned slowly to Caleb, expression professionally blank.
“Mr. Ror,” Derek said, “I’m speaking to Mrs. Wallace because according to our records, she is the sole managing member, and the security protocols that flagged this transfer were not triggered by a glitch. They were triggered because the signature submitted with the wire request does not match the specimen we have on file.”
Caleb went still.
For the first time since this began, his confidence didn’t look like armor.
It looked like paint peeling.
“That’s ridiculous,” Caleb said, voice thinner than it wanted to be. “I have power of attorney. I’ve signed for this account a dozen times.”
“Actually,” Derek said, flipping a page, “we have no power of attorney on file for this entity. And the prior transactions you referenced are now under review as well.”
Dana leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharp.
Derek opened the folder and spread documents across the table like cards in a hand nobody wanted to see.
Then he looked at me—no warmth, no sales voice, just institutional gravity.
“Mrs. Wallace,” Derek said, “the bank is prepared to freeze all activity pending a fraud investigation. But I need you to confirm for the record: did you authorize a transfer of $250,000 to an offshore entity this morning?”
I looked at Caleb.
He stared back, wide-eyed, sweat beading at his hairline. A microscopic shake of his head.
A silent plea.
Don’t.
This man told me I’d get zero dollars like he was reading the weather.
He locked me out of my own house.
He tried to bury my career.
He forged my name to build his empire.
I turned back to Derek.
“No,” I said clearly. “I did not authorize that transfer.”
The room went dead silent.
Caleb’s eyes closed like his body finally understood what his brain refused to accept.
Derek nodded once, as if the last piece clicked into place.
“Thank you,” Derek said. “That is what we suspected.”
He didn’t say it like a victory.
He said it like a verdict.
And that’s where Caleb’s world began to fall apart—because the next sentence out of Derek Walsh’s mouth wasn’t about marriage.
It was about ownership.
And it was going to change everything.
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