Chapter 6 - THE WOMAN EVERYONE CALLED THE MISTRESS
Everything I believed about Sloan changed in sixty seconds.
She wasn’t simply the woman in the Tribeca condo.
She wasn’t just the recipient of suspicious transfers.
She was Elaine Whitmore’s hidden daughter.
And Daniel Reeves had adopted her.
Preston sounded shaken.
“My mother has a daughter.”
“Yes.”
“My sister.”
“Yes.”
“And Daniel raised her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed once.
“This family is insane.”
For the first time in weeks, I almost agreed with him without anger.
Almost.
Then I remembered our daughter’s missing money.
“Did you sleep with Sloan?”
Silence.
“Natalie…”
“Answer.”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
Relief was not what I felt.
Humiliation was.
He had allowed me to think it.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was your sister?”
“I didn’t know until today.”
“Then what is your relationship with her?”
“She came to me eight months ago.”
“Why?”
“She said Mom asked her to help with a financial problem.”
“What problem?”
“Liquidity.”
“Using our daughter’s account?”
“I didn’t know Sloan was receiving the money personally.”
I almost laughed.
“You signed the transfers.”
“To SMR Advisory.”
“Her company.”
“I know that now.”
“You never checked?”
“She told me SMR was a bridge-finance consultant.”
“You moved six figures of family money based on what someone told you.”
“She had paperwork.”
“Forged?”
“Apparently.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
“You mocked me this morning for sitting at home for two years.”
“I was angry.”
“You said I didn’t understand your company.”
“I know.”
“And you drained an account because you didn’t understand your own vendors.”
He went silent.
Nothing I said could embarrass him more than the truth.
I continued.
“What about the perfume?”
“What perfume?”
“On your jacket.”
Another pause.
“I was at Sloan’s apartment.”
“Why?”
“She called me at midnight.”
“For what?”
“She was scared.”
“Of who?”
“Mom.”
That changed the room.
“Why?”
“She said Elaine had been moving old Whitmore liabilities into current entities.”
“Explain.”
“She believed Mom was preparing a collapse.”
Rachel wrote the phrase down.
“A collapse of what?” I asked.
“Whitmore Capital.”
I stood.
Preston continued.
“She said some of our largest assets are collateralized twice.”
My financial brain immediately understood the danger.
“You mean pledged to multiple lenders?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fraud.”
“I know.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know.”
“How much exposure?”
He whispered:
“Maybe two hundred million.”
My chest tightened.
This was no longer a marital asset dispute.
It was potentially criminal.
If Preston’s companies collapsed, creditors would examine every transfer.
Including the unborn-child reserve.
Including the trust.
Including anything in my name.
“Did you sign loan documents?”
“Yes.”
“Did you verify collateral schedules?”
“Our CFO handled—”
“Preston.”
Silence.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus.”
“Natalie, I can fix this.”
“No, you cannot.”
“I built this company.”
“You built the front of it.”
That hurt him.
Good.
“The numbers underneath were managed by people you trusted.”
“Mom.”
“Daniel.”
“Sloan.”
“And apparently everyone except your wife who actually knows how reporting works.”
He exhaled.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
I looked at my stomach.
“I am thirty-one weeks pregnant and trying to determine whether my husband accidentally attached my name to financial fraud.”
Silence.
Then he said:
“I’m sorry.”
Not enough.
Not yet.
“Where is Sloan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was there blood in the apartment?”
“No.”
“Signs of struggle?”
“Broken cabinet. Missing laptop.”
“Phone?”
“Left behind.”
“Then she may have left intentionally.”
“Maybe.”
“Or someone wanted us to think she did.”
Preston inhaled sharply.
“What do we do?”
The question surprised me.
Not because he asked for help.
Because for the first time, he wasn’t pretending he had the answer.
“We preserve everything.”
“I already called IT.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Do not let company IT touch anything.”
“Why?”
“Because if Elaine has been running this for years, assume internal systems are compromised.”
He went quiet.
“Use an outside forensic firm.”
“Who?”
I gave him the name of a former colleague.
Then stopped myself.
“Actually, don’t call yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know if you are part of this.”
He flinched through the silence.
“Natalie.”
“I know you misused our account.”
“I know you signed things you didn’t understand.”
“I know you lied to me about where you were.”
“What I don’t know is whether you knowingly helped hide fraud.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then prove it.”
“How?”
“Give my attorney full access.”
“To company records?”
“Yes.”
“That’s privileged.”
“That’s your problem.”
He swore.
Then said:
“Fine.”
I didn’t expect that.
“Fine?”
“Fine.”
A beat passed.
Then he added:
“There’s one thing you need to know first.”
“What?”
“Sloan wasn’t the only one Mom was paying.”
My pulse quickened.
“Who else?”
He sent me another file.
A transfer ledger from Hartwell.
One recipient appeared repeatedly.
CAROL BENNETT.
My mother.
Total payments over twelve years:
$684,000.
I slowly turned toward her.
She was sitting six feet away.
She saw her name on my screen.
Then she closed her eyes.
May you like
And whispered:
“I was going to tell you.”
