Chapter 13 - Victoria's Name Was Already in Grandpa's File
The forged power of attorney frightened me more than the deed.
A fake deed targeted one house.
A power of attorney targeted me.
My accounts.
My contracts.
Potentially everything.
The signature had again been copied from a real document.
The witness information was fabricated.
Patricia denied notarizing it.
Forensic analysis suggested her digital stamp had been inserted later.
“Was it ever used?” I asked.
Rachel searched.
At first, no.
Then she found one bank inquiry.
Eighteen months earlier, Julian had contacted an investment institution asking what documents would be required to move funds from an account held in my name.
He attached the false power of attorney.
The bank rejected it because the account was trust-restricted.
Nobody informed me.
I felt physically ill.
Eighteen months ago, Julian and I were still sleeping in the same bed.
We had taken an anniversary trip.
He bought me a bracelet.
He told me I was his best friend.
Two weeks later, he tried to gain control of my money.
Grandpa's warning suddenly seemed almost gentle compared with reality.
Prosecutors added the power-of-attorney evidence to the fraud investigation.
Julian's cooperation became less valuable every day.
His attorney requested another meeting.
This time, Julian confessed more.
He said Victoria first suggested preparing “protective documents” after his second restaurant expansion.
She told him married couples regularly signed powers of attorney.
He knew I hadn't agreed.
But he convinced himself he would only use it in an emergency.
Then he used it.
I stopped asking whether he felt guilty.
Guilt without restraint had not protected me.
The criminal case approached preliminary hearings.
Victoria pleaded not guilty.
Her defense became clear.
Nora slipped.
The video angle was misleading.
The trust dispute motivated false accusations.
Julian manipulated Victoria.
Patricia was lying to save herself.
Camille was a disgruntled former employee.
Lauren represented a lender trying to avoid responsibility.
Everybody lied.
Except Victoria.
At least according to Victoria.
Then Eleanor found Grandpa's older file.
Not the box beneath the floorboards.
A separate archive stored at her law firm.
Victoria's name appeared on the cover.
The file began sixteen years earlier.
After the failed resort project, Victoria had sent Arthur a letter threatening litigation.
She claimed his refusal to sell had damaged the Vance family financially.
Grandpa's attorney responded that property owners were not required to rescue speculative developments.
Then Victoria tried another route.
She approached Arthur socially.
Charity dinners.
Community boards.
Fundraisers.
At one event, she suggested combining the Sterling and Vance families' “interests.”
Grandpa wrote beside the meeting notes:
She does not accept closed doors. She searches for windows.
I almost laughed.
Then I saw the next page.
A private investigator's report.
Grandpa had hired someone.
“Why?”
“Because Victoria contacted your mother.”
I froze.
My mother died when I was twenty-three.
This happened two years before.
Victoria had apparently approached her at a charity luncheon.
She asked about me.
Whether I intended to live at the lake house.
Whether Grandpa planned to leave it to me.
Mom thought the questions were strange and told Arthur.
He investigated.
The private investigator documented Victoria's financial problems.
Her history of pressuring relatives for money.
The loan from her own mother's property.
The failed resort.
And one disturbing detail:
Victoria had asked several acquaintances about me before Julian and I officially met.
My mouth went dry.
“She knew who I was.”
“Yes.”
“Before the fundraiser.”
“Yes.”
“Did Julian?”
“We still don't know.”
The question consumed me.
Finally, I requested permission through attorneys to ask Julian.
He agreed to answer as part of cooperation.
We did not meet.
Questions went through counsel.
Did Victoria discuss Nora Sterling before Julian met her?
His written answer:
Yes.
I stared.
Next question.
How long before?
Approximately three months.
What did she say?
That Nora was Arthur Sterling's granddaughter and would probably inherit significant property.
Did Victoria encourage Julian to introduce himself?
Yes.
My vision blurred.
The next answer destroyed the last illusion.
Did Julian attend the fundraiser knowing Nora Sterling would be present?
Yes.
I stood.
Walked to Eleanor's window.
For several minutes, I could not speak.
He had known.
The coffee order.
The charming smile.
The “accidental” introduction.
Maybe those later moments were real.
But the beginning had not been.
Grandpa's letter came back to me.
Do not rewrite every happy memory simply because the ending was ugly.
I tried.
God, I tried.
But some memories rewrote themselves.
Julian's first question about Grandpa.
Victoria's sudden interest in me.
The way she wandered through the lake house during our engagement.
Our wedding toast, when Victoria joked that Julian had “finally married above his station.”
Everyone laughed.
Maybe she hadn't been joking.
Eleanor let me grieve.
Then she placed a document beside me.
“There is one thing Julian says he did not know.”
“What?”
“The northern parcel.”
I turned.
“He says Victoria never told him.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe evidence.”
That was another lesson I had learned.
Evidence over promises.
Patterns over apologies.
The preliminary hearing began the following week.
Victoria arrived smiling.
She wore navy.
Her lawyer presented her as a frightened widow caught inside her son's bitter divorce.
Then prosecutors introduced the basement video.
The courtroom became silent.
Watching my body fall again was worse in public.
I looked down.
When I looked up, Victoria was watching the jury box area even though no jury had been seated yet.
Calculating.
Always calculating.
Then prosecutors introduced the messages.
If she won't sign, scare her until she does.
Victoria's attorney argued Julian wrote it.
Not Victoria.
Then came her reply.
Fine. But if she screams, you're dealing with it.
For the first time, Victoria stopped smiling.
After the hearing, prosecutors informed us the case would move forward.
Outside, Julian's attorney approached Eleanor.
He carried a new document.
“What now?” I asked.
Eleanor read it.
Her face became very still.
“A deed.”
“Another fake?”
“This one has supposedly been recorded.”
My heart jumped.
“To what?”
“The lake house.”
“In whose name?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“Victoria Vance.”
According to the document, I had transferred my beneficial rights to Victoria six months before Grandpa died.
Before the trust's protective clause supposedly became relevant.
Before my marriage deteriorated.
Before any current dispute.
If the document were real, it could change everything.
It wasn't real.
May you like
I knew it.
But Victoria had finally produced the weapon she had been searching for since the beginning.
