My Husband’s Mistress Received a Gift With My Name on It
Chapter 12
THEME: FONT SIZE: 18px"I'm not a child."
"No," I said. "Children usually admit when they've been caught."
His eyes snapped to mine.
There was the man I remembered.
Proud.
Angry.
Certain control could be recovered if he spoke firmly enough.
"This is between Vivian and me."
"No," Richard said. "It isn't."
Preston looked at him.
Richard placed a folder on the coffee table.
"Your access to Whitmore Capital systems has been permanently revoked pending the completion of the internal investigation."
Preston went white.
"You can't do that."
"I already did."
"I'm a partner."
"Not for long."
Eleanor made a small sound.
"Richard."
He didn't look at her.
Preston's face changed.
"Dad, whatever Vivian told you—"
Richard slammed his palm onto the table.
The sound cracked through the room.
"Do not blame your wife."
Silence.
I had never heard Richard raise his voice at Preston.
Neither, apparently, had anyone else.
Preston stared at him.
Richard continued.
"We found the transfers."
Preston's jaw tightened.
"What transfers?"
"Do not insult me."
"I can explain."
"You falsified internal authorization."
"No."
"You used accounts connected to the firm to make your private company appear liquid."
"Temporarily."
"You lied about the purpose of funds."
"I intended to replace everything."
Richard laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"Do you know how many men have destroyed themselves with that sentence?"
"I didn't steal from clients."
"The review is ongoing."
"I didn't."
"Then you should be grateful investigators will determine that."
Preston looked toward me.
"You did this."
For a second, I nearly pitied him.
Even now.
Even with everything laid out in front of him.
The only reality he could tolerate was one where someone else had caused his consequences.
I picked up the black Bellamy & Rowe box from the mantel.
His eyes dropped to it.
"Do you remember this?"
He stared.
"Vivian."
"Do you remember what you said?"
No answer.
I opened the box.
Empty velvet.
Nothing else.
The bracelet was no longer there.
Sloane's lawyer had arranged for it to be returned as part of the fraud inquiry that morning.
I lifted the folded receipt.
"This was underneath the ribbon."
Preston stopped moving.
I watched the exact moment he understood.
His eyes fixed on the paper.
Then closed briefly.
"That's how I found the card."
Eleanor stared at him.
"What card?"
I looked at her.
"The card Preston opened in my name."
She turned pale.
"What?"
"Then I found the second card."
"Vivian," Preston said.
"The personal loan."
"Stop."
"The line of credit."
Eleanor looked from me to her son.
"Preston?"
"Mom, stay out of it."
"No," I said. "She watched Christmas. She can watch this too."
Eleanor flinched.
Good.
She needed to.
I laid the receipt on the table.
"You wanted me humiliated so badly that you forgot to remove the proof."
Preston stared at it.
I continued.
"Eighteen thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars."
His jaw tightened.
"That's what the bracelet cost."
No one spoke.
"It felt enormous when I saw it. I thought that was the betrayal. My husband bought diamonds for his mistress."
I looked at him.
"But that bracelet was the cheapest truth you bought all year."
"Vivian, I can explain the accounts."
"You've tried."
"I made bad investments."
"Yes."
"I panicked."
"Yes."
"I was trying to fix it."
"By forging my signature."
"We're married."
Lena spoke from the doorway.
"Mr. Whitmore, I strongly recommend you stop using that sentence as though it is a legal defense."
Preston turned sharply.
He hadn't noticed her.
His face changed again.
"Why is she here?"
"Because I asked her to be."
"You brought an attorney into my house?"
I almost smiled.
"My house too, remember?"
He walked toward me.
Graham stepped forward instinctively.
I raised one hand.
I didn't need anyone standing between us.
Not anymore.
Preston stopped a few feet away.
Lowered his voice.
"Vivian, we need to talk alone."
"No."
"Please."
That word sounded unnatural coming from him.
"There's nothing you can say privately that will change what you've done publicly."
His eyes flicked toward his mother.
His father.
His brother.
Shame finally reached him.
Not guilt.
Shame.
There is a difference.
Guilt asks, What have I done?
Shame asks, What do they think of me now?
"I loved you," he said.
The room became unbearably still.
I looked at him.
Part of me wanted to laugh.
Another part wanted to collapse.
Because despite everything, eight years did not vanish simply because the final truth was ugly.
There had been mornings when I loved waking beside him.
Trips.
Inside jokes.
Quiet dinners.
Hands held beneath hospital blankets.
I had loved him.
That was what made betrayal betrayal.
"I know," I said.
His face softened.
Then I finished.
"But you loved being trusted more."
May you like
The softness disappeared.
"You loved knowing I would believe you."
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