Chapter 7 - The Man at the Investor’s Table
Malcolm denied everything.
Too quickly.
“I advise investors, Lauren. I introduce people constantly.”
“Did you introduce Andrew to offshore betting contacts?”
Silence.
“I introduced him to a private investment group.”
“That accepted wagers?”
“I learned that later.”
“Why are you named as guardian of my daughters?”
That finally shook him.
“I’m what?”
I sent the document.
He stared.
“That isn’t my signature.”
Another forgery.
The pattern was expanding.
Someone had been manufacturing documents using everyone’s identities.
Mine.
Dad’s.
Rebecca’s.
Malcolm’s.
Maybe Andrew wasn’t doing all of it.
Our forensic team examined the files.
Different metadata.
Different printers.
Different drafting styles.
At least two sources.
Then Malcolm admitted something.
Andrew owed money to a group called Northstar Private Exchange.
Nominally an international investment club.
In reality, it facilitated enormous private wagers and speculative bets among wealthy clients.
Andrew started with sports.
Then currencies.
Then leveraged commodities.
He lost.
Chased.
Lost again.
Malcolm introduced him to Northstar but claimed he never expected Andrew to become addicted.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Andrew threatened me.”
“With what?”
Malcolm looked ashamed.
Years earlier, Malcolm had diverted client funds temporarily to cover a failing investment.
He replaced every dollar.
But Andrew discovered it.
Blackmail.
That explained Malcolm’s fear.
Andrew had leverage over everyone.
Except Patricia.
Or so I thought.
Then Evelyn found a $900,000 transfer from Patricia’s personal account to Northstar.
She had paid part of Andrew’s debt.
Twice.
Patricia wasn’t merely hiding assets.
She had been rescuing him.
Again and again.
Just like me.
Different methods.
Same mistake.
We had taught Andrew that consequences belonged to other people.
That afternoon, Andrew filed for custody.
Exactly as Patricia predicted.
His attorney argued I had removed the children from their home without explanation and was hiding substantial assets from my spouse.
That part was almost funny.
The man secretly pledging my company accused me of financial concealment.
Then came the photograph.
Me entering a hotel with Sophia and Chloe.
Timestamped after the banquet.
Captioned:
LAUREN VANCE REMOVES CHILDREN FROM MARITAL HOME FOLLOWING PUBLIC BREAKDOWN.
Public breakdown.
I hadn’t broken down.
That was the problem.
They needed a breakdown.
So someone created one.
A video appeared.
Edited footage from the banquet showed me confronting Patricia.
Audio:
“You touch my children again and I’ll destroy this entire family.”
I had never said it.
Deepfake?
No.
The words were mine.
But from different conversations, spliced together.
Someone had access to private recordings of me.
I remembered Andrew’s habit of leaving his phone face-down in rooms.
Recording.
For months.
Maybe years.
Then my attorney received a second video.
Sophia crying in the hotel.
“Daddy doesn’t want us.”
No context.
No explanation.
Who recorded that?
Only three people had been in the suite.
Me.
Chloe.
Sophia.
Then I remembered the tablet Andrew had given Sophia for Christmas.
I opened its settings.
Remote family access enabled.
Microphone permissions.
Cloud synchronization.
Andrew had been listening through our daughter’s device.
My hands started shaking.
Then a notification appeared on the tablet.
DAD: SOPHIA, CALL ME WHEN MOM LEAVES THE ROOM.
I stared at it.
Another message appeared.
DON’T TELL HER.
Then:
I NEED YOU TO HELP DADDY COME GET YOU.
Sophia entered behind me.
Her face changed when she saw the screen.
“Mom…”
I turned.
“How long has Daddy been messaging you?”
Her eyes filled.
May you like
Then she whispered:
“He said if I didn’t help him, Chloe would lose our house.”
