Chapter 4 - THE SIGNATURE THAT WASN’T MINE
The wire authorization contained my signature.
It looked convincing.
The C in Camila curved exactly the way mine did.
The V in Vance tilted slightly right.
Someone had practiced.
But there was one problem.
The transfer was dated February 14.
Valentine’s Day.
Five years earlier.
I remembered that date because Alejandro had taken me to Paris.
We had dinner beside the Seine.
He gave me a diamond bracelet.
I had believed it was romantic.
Now Rebecca was telling me that while we were in Paris, $280,000 had moved out of an account bearing my name to purchase Claudia’s townhouse.
“Could Alejandro authorize that?”
“Not legitimately using your signature.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then we prove I wasn’t in Chicago.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Flight records. Hotel records. Passport entries.”
Sofia looked furious.
“He took you to Paris while buying his mistress a house?”
Apparently.
Then something even worse occurred to me.
“Who paid for Paris?”
Rebecca checked.
I already knew.
My trust.
The humiliation was almost absurd enough to be funny.
Almost.
My father had always told me that wealth magnified character.
When I was younger, I thought he meant greed.
Now I understood another meaning.
Money can hide betrayal for a very long time if the person paying the bills never needs to count them.
Rebecca advised me to take immediate protective steps.
Not revenge.
Protection.
Cards attached exclusively to my trust were canceled.
Automatic discretionary transfers were suspended.
My separate property managers were notified that Alejandro no longer had authorization to request distributions or approve expenses.
Nothing belonging jointly to us was secretly emptied.
Every move was documented.
Legal.
Clean.
By the following afternoon, Alejandro noticed.
My phone rang at 3:12.
“What did you do?”
No hello.
No question about my recovery.
I smiled from my hospital bed.
“What happened?”
“My Amex was declined.”
“Which Amex?”
“You know which.”
“The platinum card paid by my trust?”
Silence.
Then:
“I’m your husband.”
“You asked me for a divorce.”
“You can’t financially abuse me because you’re angry.”
The irony was breathtaking.
“I’m not taking anything that belongs to you.”
“You cut me off.”
“I stopped voluntarily paying your personal expenses.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, Alejandro.”
I looked out the window.
“It isn’t.”
He started shouting.
I ended the call.
Five minutes later, Claudia called.
I did not answer.
Then she sent a message:
Please don’t punish the children for what happened between adults.
Children.
Plural.
Lucia and the baby boy.
I read it twice.
Then replied with one sentence:
How many years have you been sleeping with my husband?
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then Claudia sent:
It’s complicated.
I almost laughed.
Everything becomes complicated when the simple answer sounds terrible.
That evening, Rebecca arrived with more records.
She placed three folders on my table.
“Camila, the forged wire may not be the biggest problem.”
“What is?”
She opened the first folder.
“A power of attorney.”
My name appeared on it.
Alejandro’s name appeared beneath mine.
According to the document, I had granted him broad authority over certain financial decisions six months earlier.
May you like
Two weeks after my brain tumor diagnosis.
And once again, the signature looked exactly like mine.
