Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE I NEVER WROTE
Nothing ends an argument faster than the words “forged signature.”
Mrs. Gertrude stopped shouting.
Brandon stopped begging.
Even the movers became quiet.
I looked at the document again.
My full legal name appeared under the guarantor section.
Savannah Elise Morgan.
My address.
My employer.
Even the final four digits of an old bank account.
Whoever prepared it knew enough about me to make the fraud believable.
I looked at Brandon.
“You forged my signature.”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
Noah noticed.
“So did I,” I said.
Brandon rubbed his face.
“I didn’t forge anything.”
“Then explain why my name is on a trust I’ve never heard of.”
Gertrude suddenly became very interested in the sidewalk.
I turned toward her.
“You knew.”
She crossed her arms.
“I don’t know anything about paperwork.”
“Convenient.”
Noah took the document.
“The trust would have transferred the house, several loans, and future renovation debt into a structure requiring Savannah’s guarantee.”
My father frowned.
“In plain English?”
Noah looked at me.
“If the marriage had gone through and the trust financing defaulted, Savannah could have been pursued for a significant portion of the debt.”
I stared at Brandon.
“How significant?”
Noah answered.
“Potentially more than two hundred thousand dollars.”
My father cursed.
Gertrude snapped:
“That house belongs in our family.”
I turned.
“So you knew.”
“I knew Brandon was trying to secure our future.”
“With my credit?”
“You were going to be his wife.”
There it was again.
That word.
Wife.
As if marriage was a transfer of ownership.
I stepped closer.
“Did you lock me outside yesterday because of a tarot reader?”
Gertrude’s mouth tightened.
“No.”
Brandon whispered:
“Mom.”
She ignored him.
“I wanted to see whether you could follow instructions.”
I felt something inside me go very still.
“You humiliated me to test obedience.”
“You always had too much pride.”
“And if I stayed outside?”
She looked directly at me.
“Then I would have known you were ready to become part of this family.”
My father stepped forward.
I touched his arm.
“No.”
This was mine.
I looked at Brandon.
“You knew?”
His silence answered.
“You knew she planned it.”
He swallowed.
“She said it was important.”
“Important for what?”
He looked toward Noah.
I understood.
The trust.
The house.
The money.
They hadn’t only wanted a wedding.
They wanted proof that once married, I would tolerate anything to preserve it.
I laughed.
Not happily.
But clearly.
Gertrude’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s funny?”
“You tested the wrong woman.”
I turned to the movers.
“Start with the living room.”
Brandon stepped in front of the gate.
“No one enters.”
Noah calmly removed another paper.
“Temporary access order.”
Brandon stared.
“You already went to court?”
“No,” Noah said. “This is a written access authorization you signed six months ago when Savannah purchased the furniture.”
I looked at him.
He had forgotten.
I hadn’t.
The movers entered.
Twenty minutes later, the leather sofa came through the front door.
Gertrude nearly screamed herself hoarse.
The television followed.
Then the dining chairs.
Then the expensive coffee machine Brandon had insisted was “an investment.”
I stood on the sidewalk and checked each item against my inventory.
By eleven thirty, the house looked noticeably emptier.
Brandon came outside.
His anger had disappeared.
Now he looked scared.
“Savannah.”
“What?”
“We made mistakes.”
“You committed fraud.”
“I didn’t forge your name.”
“Then who did?”
He looked toward the house.
His mother had gone inside.
“Not here.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Something in his face made me pause.
Not sincerity.
Fear.
Real fear.
He lowered his voice.
“My mother didn’t create that trust.”
“Then who did?”
Brandon glanced toward Noah.
Then whispered:
“My boss.”
I stared.
“Your municipal supervisor?”
Brandon nodded.
“Councilman Derek Shaw.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in Grand Rapids did.
Developer.
Councilman.
Family friend of the Pierces.
And the man who had personally promised Brandon a promotion after our marriage.
“What does Derek Shaw have to do with your mother’s house?”
Brandon looked at me.
Then said the sentence that changed the entire problem.
“He doesn’t care about the house.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does he care about?”
May you like
Brandon’s eyes dropped to the folder in my hands.
“Your company.”
