CHAPTER 10 — THE HUSBAND WHO TRIED TO DESTROY HER
CHAPTER 10 — THE HUSBAND WHO TRIED TO DESTROY HER
Damian didn't blink.
He stood in the middle of the drawing room, holding the silver key with the black rose engraved across its surface.
For the first time since I had known him, he looked genuinely afraid.
Not angry.
Not arrogant.
Afraid.
And somehow, that frightened me more.
“What does the file say?” I asked.
He didn't answer.
“Damian.”
He looked at Evelyn.
His mother shook her head.
“Don't.”
He ignored her.
“The file says M-18 is protected under a different identity.”
“Whose identity?”
“I don't know.”
“You opened the vault.”
“Yes.”
“You read the file.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know more than you're telling me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know enough to understand that you're in danger.”
I laughed bitterly.
“I'm always in danger when someone wants something from me.”
He stepped closer.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
“You slapped me.”
Silence.
“You stole from me.”
Nothing.
“You married me under false pretenses.”
His eyes dropped.
“And you tried to destroy my reputation.”
He finally looked up.
“That last part isn't true.”
“Then why are you here?”
He placed the silver key on the table.
“To warn you.”
“About what?”
“About yourself.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
He pulled a folder from inside his coat.
Thick.
Black.
Sealed.
Then he placed it in front of me.
“You think you're the victim.”
I looked at the folder.
“I am.”
“No.”
His voice became colder.
“You're the heir.”
He opened it.
“And heirs have secrets too.”
Inside were photographs.
Documents.
Bank statements.
Emails.
Contracts.
And one particular document that made my blood freeze.
A transfer authorization.
My signature.
My name.
My approval.
A transfer of $7,800,000 from Montrose Global.
To an account controlled by a company I had never heard of.
I stared at it.
“I didn't sign this.”
Damian smiled.
“That is what you always say.”
“I didn't.”
“The bank says otherwise.”
“This is forged.”
“Can you prove it?”
I looked at him.
He leaned closer.
“That's the problem, Isabella.”
His voice dropped.
“Everyone believes documents before they believe people.”
My father stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Damian turned toward him.
“No.”
He pointed at the papers.
“Four years ago, Isabella transferred nearly eight million dollars.”
“I did not.”
“Then explain the signature.”
“I can't explain something I never signed.”
Damian smiled.
“Exactly.”
He had prepared everything.
I could see it now.
The documents.
The timestamps.
The account statements.
The emails.
It wasn't an accusation.
It was a case.
Against me.
And Damian had built it carefully.
He had learned from watching me.
He knew exactly how financial systems worked.
He knew which records looked convincing.
He knew how much evidence was necessary before doubt became belief.
I turned another page.
There was an email.
From my account.
To a private attorney.
The message said:
Move the money immediately. Damian must never know.
I stared at it.
My heart hammered.
“I never wrote this.”
Damian said nothing.
“Who accessed my account?”
“You tell me.”
I looked at him.
“You're trying to frame me.”
He smiled.
“I'm giving everyone the evidence.”
At 7:15 the next morning, the first headline appeared.
MONTROSE HEIR ACCUSED OF SECRETLY DIVERTING MILLIONS.
Then another.
ISABELLA MONTROSE UNDER INTERNAL INVESTIGATION.
Then:
DID THE WRONGFUL WIFE BECOME THE REAL THIEF?
My phone exploded.
Calls.
Messages.
Emails.
Investors demanded explanations.
Board members demanded an emergency meeting.
Journalists waited outside headquarters.
And then—
the stock price began falling.
My father looked at me.
“He planned this.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“How much does he have?”
“Enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“He has enough evidence to make people believe him.”
My father looked furious.
“Then we destroy the evidence.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
“We expose where it came from.”
At 9:00 a.m., the emergency board meeting began.
The room was packed.
Directors.
Lawyers.
Major shareholders.
Auditors.
Executives.
And Damian.
He sat at the opposite end of the table.
Calm.
Perfectly dressed.
Almost confident.
His attorney stood beside him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the lawyer began, “we are here because substantial funds were transferred without authorization.”
I watched Damian.
He never looked at me.
The lawyer continued.
“The evidence indicates that the transfers were authorized by Ms. Montrose.”
A board member asked:
“Do we have proof?”
“Yes.”
The first document appeared on the screen.
My signature.
The second.
Another signature.
The third.
A bank confirmation.
Then the email.
The room became tense.
One director looked at me.
“Isabella?”
I remained silent.
Another asked:
“Did you authorize these transfers?”
“No.”
Damian finally looked at me.
His expression was almost sympathetic.
“Then perhaps you should explain why the evidence says otherwise.”
I looked directly at him.
“Gladly.”
I stood.
“Before we discuss whether I authorized these transactions, I want everyone to ask a more important question.”
“What question?”
“Who prepared the evidence?”
Damian's attorney frowned.
“The documents came from financial institutions.”
“Some did.”
I turned toward the screen.
“But the emails did not.”
I clicked the remote.
A new screen appeared.
Metadata.
Login records.
IP addresses.
Access timestamps.
The room became silent.
I pointed at one line.
“The email was supposedly written from my office.”
“Yes,” Damian's attorney said.
“But the computer wasn't in my office.”
He hesitated.
“What?”
“The computer used to create this message was located inside Damian's private office.”
Silence.
Damian's face changed.
I continued.
“The login occurred at 2:14 a.m.”
A director looked at Damian.
“Were you in your office?”
Damian said nothing.
His attorney stepped forward.
“That proves nothing.”
I smiled.
“Then let's look at the security footage.”
The screen changed.
A timestamp appeared.
2:13 a.m.
Damian entered his office.
Two minutes later—
the computer was activated.
He remained there for forty-six minutes.
The room erupted.
Damian stood.
“This is manipulated.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“It's impossible.”
“You created the evidence.”
“I didn't.”
“You forgot one thing.”
“What?”
“You taught me to read financial systems.”
Damian stared at me.
I walked toward him.
“For four years, you believed I was the naive wife.”
I placed a document on the table.
“You forgot I built half the systems you used to steal from my company.”
His expression hardened.
“I didn't steal.”
“Forty-one million dollars.”
“You're accusing me.”
“Yes.”
“And you think this proves it?”
“No.”
I pointed toward the screen.
“This does.”
A new chart appeared.
Every transfer.
Every account.
Every intermediary.
Every destination.
All connected.
The room fell silent.
Damian's attorney stared.
“This can't be…”
“It can.”
I looked at Damian.
“You tried to frame me with a system I designed.”
But Damian didn't panic.
Instead—
he smiled.
That smile made my stomach tighten.
“You still don't understand.”
He pulled another document from his folder.
“I knew you would find the metadata.”
I froze.
He placed it on the table.
“So I prepared for that too.”
The document showed an internal authorization.
Signed by me.
Dated four years ago.
The same day I had been hospitalized with severe exhaustion.
I stared at it.
“I couldn't have signed this.”
“You did.”
“No.”
Damian looked around the room.
“This is the secret I never wanted to reveal.”
He looked directly at me.
“Four years ago, Isabella wasn't simply my wife.”
He paused.
“She was my partner.”
The room went silent.
“What are you talking about?”
Damian pulled out another document.
A private marital agreement.
My name.
His name.
And a clause.
ALL FINANCIAL DECISIONS MADE JOINTLY BY THE MARRIED COUPLE SHALL BE CONSIDERED MUTUALLY AUTHORIZED.
He smiled.
“That means every transfer was legal.”
I stared at the contract.
I remembered signing something like it.
But I had never read every page.
Damian had presented it as a standard marital financial agreement.
My hands began shaking.
“You hid that clause.”
“No.”
“You knew I wouldn't understand it.”
“I gave you the document.”
“You manipulated me.”
“Maybe.”
He leaned closer.
“But you signed.”
The boardroom exploded into whispers.
One director said:
“This changes everything.”
Another asked:
“Are the funds technically unauthorized?”
Damian's attorney answered:
“Not necessarily.”
My father looked at me.
I felt trapped.
Not because Damian had proven I was guilty.
Because he had created a legal gray zone.
He didn't need to prove I stole money.
He only needed to make it look as if I had participated.
Then he whispered:
“Now you understand.”
“What?”
“Why I never divorced you.”
I stared at him.
“You needed me.”
“I needed your signature.”
My stomach turned.
“And your inheritance.”
“Yes.”
“And your access.”
“Yes.”
“And your name.”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“But there was one thing I never expected.”
“What?”
“That you would finally become dangerous.”
I looked down at the contract.
Then something caught my attention.
The signature.
My signature was there.
But the date was wrong.
I checked it again.
Four years ago.
That was impossible.
Because four years ago—
I hadn't yet changed my signature.
I had started using a different signature after my grandfather's death.
A small alteration.
One that only appeared on documents created after the succession.
I looked at Damian.
“You forged it.”
His smile disappeared.
“You changed my signature.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn't.”
I turned toward the board.
“Check my signature records.”
The company secretary immediately opened the archive.
Within minutes, the historical documents appeared.
My real signature from that period.
Different.
The one on Damian's contract?
A later version.
Created almost two years after the alleged agreement.
The room went silent.
Damian's face drained.
I looked at him.
“You didn't make one mistake.”
I walked closer.
“You made three.”
His attorney whispered:
“Damian…”
I continued.
“First, you forged the signature.”
I held up the document.
“Second, you used a version that didn't exist yet.”
Then I pointed at the metadata.
“And third…”
I smiled.
“You created the file on a computer that didn't exist in our office four years ago.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Damian stared at the screen.
He had built a perfect lie.
Except for time.
Time always tells the truth.
Then Damian did something unexpected.
He laughed.
Softly.
Almost sadly.
“You think you've won.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I know you lost.”
He looked at me.
“You still haven't found the real secret.”
“What secret?”
He leaned forward.
“The reason I married you.”
I stared at him.
“You already admitted it.”
“No.”
His eyes darkened.
“You think it was about money.”
“Wasn't it?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He looked toward Evelyn.
His mother was standing near the door.
Her face had gone white.
Damian whispered:
“Ask your mother-in-law what happened the night before your wedding.”
I turned toward Evelyn.
She looked terrified.
“Evelyn?”
She didn't answer.
“Tell me.”
She shook her head.
Damian smiled.
“Tell her.”
Evelyn's eyes filled with tears.
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because if she knows…”
She stopped.
I stepped closer.
“If I know what?”
Evelyn whispered:
“Your mother came to me the night before the wedding.”
My heart stopped.
“What did she say?”
“She begged me to stop the marriage.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
Evelyn looked at Damian.
Then at me.
“She told me Damian wasn't the real danger.”
I frowned.
“Then who was?”
Evelyn's voice broke.
“Your father.”
The room went silent.
I turned slowly toward my father.
He stood motionless.
“Dad?”
He didn't speak.
“Is that true?”
His face changed.
And in that moment—
I knew.
There was something he had hidden from me too.
Something much bigger than the money Damian had stolen.
I looked between them.
“My mother warned Evelyn about my father.”
Evelyn nodded.
“She said your father was the one person who could never be allowed to control the Montrose trust.”
I turned toward my father.
“Why?”
He finally spoke.
“Because your mother was wrong.”
I stared.
“She was wrong?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“I wasn't trying to control the trust.”
“Then what were you doing?”
He took a long breath.
“I was trying to keep it from your uncle.”
My heart stopped.
“Alexander?”
“Yes.”
“The uncle everyone said disappeared?”
My father nodded.
“He never disappeared.”
I felt cold.
“Where is he?”
My father looked toward the window.
Then he said:
“He has been sitting on the Montrose board for twelve years.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Under what name?”
My father answered:
“Richard Hale.”
Vanessa's father.
The man who had supposedly died years ago.
The man who had received millions from Damian.
The man connected to Asterion.
The man who had been manipulating everything from the beginning.
I looked at Damian.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
Because he knew.
I looked at Evelyn.
She was crying.
And then I understood the real reason Damian had tried to destroy me.
It wasn't simply to steal my fortune.
He had been trying to make me lose control of the company before I discovered who was actually controlling the enemy from inside.
The marriage.
The money.
The forged documents.
The affair.
The humiliation.
Everything had been designed to isolate me.
To make me doubt myself.
To make me surrender my inheritance.
But Damian had made one fatal mistake.
He had tried to turn me into a victim.
Instead—
he had given me a reason to fight.
I picked up the old brown bag.
Then I looked at everyone in the room.
“I want every document connected to Richard Hale.”
My father nodded.
“And I want the Blackwell files.”
He nodded again.
“Everything.”
Then I looked at Damian.
“And I want every account you ever touched.”
His face hardened.
“You won't find anything.”
I smiled.
“That's what you said before.”
I walked toward the door.
Behind me, Damian called:
“Isabella.”
I stopped.
“There's one thing you still don't know.”
I turned.
He stared at me.
“The child isn't M-18.”
I froze.
“What?”
Damian's expression was unreadable.
“M-18 isn't your mother's second child.”
“Then what is it?”
He whispered:
“It's you.”
My heart stopped.
“But M-17 was me.”
“I know.”
“Then how can I be both?”
Damian looked at Evelyn.
His mother closed her eyes.
Then he said:
“Because M-17 was the identity they gave you.”
“And M-18…”
He paused.
“…is the identity you were born with.”
I couldn't breathe.
Two identities.
One woman.
One heir.
May you like
And a secret so carefully buried that even I had never known my own real name.
TO BE CONTINUED...
