Chapter 7 - Sebastian Disappears
For twelve hours, nobody knew where Sebastian was.
Beatrice blamed me.
Of course she did.
She called from an unknown number because I had blocked every number she normally used.
“If something happens to my son, that's on you.”
I nearly hung up.
Then I heard something beneath her anger.
Fear.
Real fear.
“When did you last speak to him?”
“Yesterday.”
“What did he say?”
“That he couldn't take it anymore.”
My stomach tightened.
I contacted David, who contacted Sebastian's attorney.
The treatment center confirmed Sebastian had left voluntarily.
The $40,000 withdrawal had come from an account investigators hadn't frozen because it contained legitimate personal funds.
Marcus wasn't answering anyone.
By evening, I received a text.
From Sebastian.
I'm sorry.
Nothing else.
I called.
No answer.
I texted:
Where are you?
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Then:
Mom's condo.
Florida.
I called local authorities for a welfare check.
Then Beatrice and Marcus flew south.
I did not.
That boundary mattered.
Sebastian needed help.
But helping did not require me to become responsible for fixing him.
He was found alive.
Drunk.
Terrified.
The forty thousand dollars was still in his bag.
He hadn't gambled it.
He had intended to run.
Instead, he returned to treatment.
Something changed afterward.
Sebastian stopped asking anyone to rescue him.
He signed an agreement cooperating with investigators.
He admitted his role.
He accepted responsibility for debts that were legitimately his.
He sold his car.
Moved out of his luxury apartment.
Started attending meetings.
Months later, he wrote me a letter.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I read it.
There were no excuses.
No requests.
Just an apology.
You were a person to me until money got involved. Then I let myself see you as a solution. I don't expect forgiveness. I just needed to finally say what I did without blaming Marcus, Mom, gambling, or fear. I helped steal your identity. I'm sorry.
I kept the letter.
Not because I forgave him.
Not yet.
But because accountability was rare in the Bennett family.
Meanwhile, my divorce moved forward.
Marcus fought over the house.
Not because he wanted it.
Because he needed money.
The irony was almost funny.
The man who believed marriage entitled him to my inheritance discovered that marriage also required disclosure of his hidden assets.
Priya found everything.
The secret account.
Transfers.
Undisclosed income.
Company payments.
Marcus's attorney eventually advised him to settle.
I kept the house.
Recovered a significant portion of the money he'd removed from our marital investments.
My inheritance remained untouched.
Beatrice sold the Florida condo.
Most of the proceeds went toward litigation and company obligations.
She moved into a smaller rental.
Then one afternoon, she appeared at my door.
I saw her through the camera.
For several minutes, I considered not answering.
Then I opened it but didn't invite her inside.
She looked different.
No designer handbag.
No perfect makeup.
No commanding posture.
“I need five minutes.”
“You have two.”
Her lips tightened.
Some habits survive bankruptcy.
“I came to apologize.”
I waited.
She struggled.
Actually struggled.
“I shouldn't have come here demanding your money.”
“No.”
“And I shouldn't have been involved in Marcus's business.”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You don't have to enjoy this.”
“I'm not.”
That seemed to disarm her.
She looked toward the driveway.
“I spent my entire life protecting my boys.”
“From consequences.”
She looked back at me.
“Yes.”
It was the first honest thing I had ever heard her say.
“My husband died when Marcus was fourteen. I told myself I had to make sure my sons never struggled.”
“And they learned someone else would always pay.”
She nodded.
Tears filled her eyes.
“I think I ruined them.”
I didn't know what to say.
So I told the truth.
“You hurt them.”
She wiped her face.
“And you.”
“Yes.”
“Can you forgive me?”
There it was.
The request everyone eventually makes when consequences become uncomfortable.
“I don't know.”
She looked disappointed.
“But I hope someday you become someone I could forgive.”
Beatrice stared at me.
Then nodded.
She left.
I closed the door.
And for the first time, I didn't feel victorious.
I felt free.
Six months later, the divorce was finalized.
I walked out of the courthouse with Naomi and David.
Naomi raised both hands.
“You are officially unmarried!”
People turned.
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
We went for champagne.
That night, I returned home alone.
But the house didn't feel empty.
It felt peaceful.
I placed my mother's photograph on the mantel.
Then my phone rang.
David.
“You're not going to believe this.”
I smiled.
“Please don't tell me someone else forged my signature.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“The Rivera Opportunity Fund received an anonymous donation.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
I froze.
“From who?”
“That's the interesting part.”
He paused.
“The donor requested anonymity, but the transfer originated from an account belonging to Bennett Development Group's bankruptcy estate.”
I frowned.
“How?”
“One creditor waived part of his recovery and redirected it.”
“Which creditor?”
May you like
David hesitated.
“Calvin Reese.”
