I sat down.
He remained standing.
“Did you know what she was going to say?”
“Not all of it.”
“Some?”
He nodded.
My stomach tightened.
“She mentioned combining finances after marriage. I assumed she meant you and me having a joint account.”
“The account she planned to oversee?”
“I swear I didn’t know that.”
I believed him.
That did not solve everything.
But I believed him.
“What about property in your name?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Family priority?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation answered me.
“She’s said similar things before,” he admitted.
“And you never told me?”
“I thought she’d change once she knew you better.”
I almost laughed.
“Marcus, we’ve been together four years.”
“I know.”
“You weren’t waiting for her to change. You were waiting for me to adapt.”
He sat across from me.
That sentence seemed to hit him.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then Marcus said, “Cancel Monday.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Cancel it.”
“You wanted me to reconsider last night.”
“I do. But not by Monday.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“I don’t want you marrying me because deposits are paid and relatives bought plane tickets.”
For the first time since the banquet, something in my chest loosened.
“I’m moving out of Mom’s investment accounts,” he continued.
I frowned.
“What investment accounts?”
Marcus looked confused.
“The family trust.”
“I thought your father’s estate was divided years ago.”
“It was.”
Something in his expression shifted.
“Wait.”
He stared at me.
“What did your father do for Sterling Industries?”
I stiffened.
“Why?”
“Because Mom called me at three this morning.”
“What does that have to do with Dad?”
“She was furious about Richard Sterling recognizing him.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“She said something I didn’t understand.”
“What?”
“She said, ‘Of all the families you could have married into, you chose Samuel Bennett’s daughter.’”
My pulse slowed.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Marcus took out his phone.
“But then she said something stranger.”
He opened a message from Beatrice.
There were only two lines.
Do not discuss family finances with Valerie until I speak to our attorney.
Especially not the Westbridge account.
I stared at the screen.
“What is the Westbridge account?”
Marcus shook his head.
“I have no idea.”
That afternoon, Dad met Richard Sterling at a quiet café near the river.
I only knew because Mom accidentally mentioned it while we were talking.
Apparently, Dad had made her promise not to interfere.
Apparently, Mom’s definition of not interfering did not include keeping secrets from her daughter.
By six o’clock, Dad called me.
“Can you come over?”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
I drove there immediately.
Richard Sterling was sitting in our living room.
The CEO whose photograph appeared in business magazines was holding one of Mom’s flowered teacups.
He looked strangely normal.
Dad gestured toward the sofa.
“Sit.”
I did.
Richard leaned forward.
“I owe your father an apology.”
“For what?”
“Fifteen years ago, Samuel discovered irregularities connected to an investment partnership that did business with Sterling.”
Dad looked toward the window.
Richard continued.
“Nothing criminal was proven. But your father believed certain transactions were misleading.”
My mind went immediately to Marcus’s message.
“Was the partnership called Westbridge?”
Richard stopped.
Dad turned toward me.
“How do you know that name?”
My throat went dry.
“Marcus’s mother told him not to discuss something called the Westbridge account.”
Richard and Dad exchanged a long look.
My heartbeat accelerated.
“Valerie,” Dad said slowly, “what exactly did she say?”
I repeated the message.
Dad stood.
He walked to the bookshelf and pulled out an old wooden document box I had seen dozens of times growing up.
He unlocked it.
Inside were several folders.
One was labeled:
WESTBRIDGE CAPITAL — 2011.
Dad removed it and sat beside me.
“There’s something you need to understand,” he said.
“Beatrice didn’t first meet our family yesterday.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Dad opened the folder.
Inside was an old photograph.
Richard Sterling stood outside an office building, considerably younger.
Dad was beside him.
And several feet away stood a woman in a cream-colored business suit.
Beatrice.
Younger.
Smiling.
Holding a folder marked Westbridge.
I looked at my father.
“You knew Marcus’s mother?”
Dad shook his head.
“Not socially.”
Richard spoke instead.
“Fifteen years ago, Beatrice was one of Westbridge Capital’s financial representatives.”
The room went silent.
Then Dad turned another page.
There, beneath a series of typed numbers, was a signature I recognized from holiday cards and wedding invitations.
Beatrice Holloway.
And suddenly, her strange words to Marcus made sense.
She had not been shocked because Richard Sterling knew my father.
She had been frightened because she knew exactly who my father was.
