She slid the file toward me.
The owner name made my blood freeze.
Audrey Whitmore Bennett.
Me.
I looked at my father.
“They forged my authorization?”
“No,” Naomi corrected quietly.
“They manipulated you into signing it yourself.”
I remembered the charity gala.
Three months earlier.
Mark telling me he needed “routine compliance signatures.”
I had signed while answering texts from hospital nurses about my father’s blood pressure spike.
I never read the pages carefully.
Because I trusted my husband.
Naomi leaned back slowly.
“Legally speaking, this is sophisticated.”
Then she added:
“Emotionally speaking, it’s monstrous.”
—
At home that evening, I cooked dinner while Mark sat at the island scrolling through his phone.
He looked relaxed.
Victorious already.
“How was your dad today?” he asked casually.
I stirred the pasta sauce.
“Tired.”
“He should really let me take more pressure off his shoulders.”
I nearly shattered the wooden spoon in my hand.
Instead, I smiled softly.
“You’ve done so much already.”
Mark grinned.
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