[COMPLETED] My Husband’s Pregnant Mistress Showed Me Her Engagement Ring—Then Their Wedding Date Made Him Desperate to Speak Privately

By the next morning, Grant had sent six messages.

Four asked me to meet him. One complained that involving lawyers would damage Hearthline's reputation. The last said he was worried about my health.

I read them over breakfast and answered none.

Naomi called just after nine. Her office had received the version of the authorization retained by the title company. It included a notarial acknowledgment and an attached certification that I had approved the sale during a remote meeting.

“Were you on that call?” she asked.

“No.”

“Were you ever asked to join it?”

“No.”

“Then we request the identification record, the electronic audit trail, and whatever video evidence the notary kept. If the acknowledgment is defective, that matters independently of who copied your signature.”

I appreciated her insistence on separating the questions. A bad document did not automatically identify its author. It gave us a path toward finding out.

At the office that afternoon, I used my own access to review archived company correspondence. Hearthline occupied two floors of the Mercer Street building. The warehouse below housed sample inventory and a workshop. Grant had recently told employees the property was being reorganized to attract new capital.

The employees had treated it as another decision made by the man they saw most often.

I had been letting them.

Leah joined us in a conference room with a list of questions rather than conclusions. She wanted to know who could authorize transfers above fifty thousand dollars, who had access to the old financing scans, and whether company payments to the jewelry merchant had supporting invoices.

“The finance manager can prepare wires,” I told her. “Grant approves them. I used to countersign large capital transactions.”

“Do you now?”

“He stopped asking.”

Leah made a note. “That isn't the same thing as eliminating your authority. We need to see whether the bank received an amended mandate.”

We reviewed the approval chain. An electronic consent bearing my name had been attached to the sale file. It originated from a company account I rarely used, but the activity log showed access at a time I had been at Naomi's office discussing my concerns.

I could prove where I had been. Naomi had appointment records. That still would not tell us who operated the account, but it narrowed what the claim of my participation could mean.

“Don't log back into that account,” Leah said. “Let us preserve the access records properly.”

I agreed.

On our way out, a receptionist told me Savannah had visited the office the previous afternoon to collect a package for Grant. I asked no more questions. Her presence was not a revelation; she had known the building well enough to recognize it in the boutique. I did not want ordinary staff drawn into an accusation before the evidence justified one.

Naomi met me at the exit.

“The temporary order isn't guaranteed,” she said. “The judge may ask why you didn't challenge the sale sooner.”

“Because I didn't know it existed.”

“Then that is what you say. Clearly. Without guessing at anyone's motives.”

Outside, I found Grant leaning against his car.

He had always known how to look reassuring. The careful clothes, the patient expression, the way he approached without raising his voice. For years, those things had made difficult conversations seem less frightening.

Now I knew they could also make it harder to tell when he was avoiding a question.

“I want to take you to dinner,” he said.

“I have plans.”

“Claire, we're still married.”

“I haven't forgotten.”

He glanced at the folder in my hand. “You can't let Naomi convince you I'm stealing from you.”

“She hasn't. I have a copy of a document I never signed.”

His face remained composed, but his eyes shifted toward the building behind me.

“Those signatures were handled by our finance team.”

“Then you can tell the court who authorized them.”

“I don't want a public hearing.”

“Neither did I.”

He reached for the car door, then stopped. “We could settle this privately. I could buy out your interest and make sure you're comfortable.”

“Using what money?”

He looked at me for a moment. “You think the worst of me now.”

“I think you should answer the question.”

He did not.

When I drove away, my hands were shaking. I had been calm in the boutique. I had been calm at the office. In the privacy of my car, I finally felt how much effort that calm had required.

At home, Naomi called again.

“The title company has confirmed the scheduled closing instructions,” she said. “The purchaser is supposed to pay into escrow on October eighteenth. But the transfer authorization directs a substantial portion of the proceeds to a consulting company before the remaining money reaches Hearthline.”

“What consulting company?”

“Westbridge Advisory.”

I recognized the name from the unexplained statements I had sent Leah.

“Does Grant own it?”

“We don't know yet. We have requested the supporting contracts and ownership information.”

A transfer to a consulting company could be legitimate. It could also explain why the sale was structured to move money away from the business I still controlled.

I sat at the dining table, surrounded by copies of documents that had once looked entirely ordinary.

“What happens if the money moves before the hearing?” I asked.

“We're seeking an immediate preservation agreement. If they refuse, we can ask the judge for additional emergency relief.”

I looked toward the empty chair where Grant used to sit and complain that we never had enough time for dinner together.