Chapter 4 - The Third DocumentThe third document was a thick stack of forensic accounting printouts and high-resolution PDF screenshots.
Caleb froze, his hand hovering over the desk. "What is that?"
"While you were busy playing domestic lord of the manor with Brynna, planning your little family transition behind my back, I had our corporate accounts audited," I said evenly. My voice didn't shake; it carried the crushing weight of absolute certainty. "You didn't just cheat on me emotionally and physically, Caleb. You systematically embezzled nearly two hundred and forty thousand dollars from the Seabriar Hall capital improvement fund over the last eight months."
The color completely drained from Caleb's face, leaving him looking sickly and hollow. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out—just a faint, dry gasp.
"You used company funds to lease Brynna’s luxury apartment in downtown Charleston," I continued, sliding the bank statements forward so the routing numbers and corporate stamps were clearly visible. "You used estate maintenance funds to purchase her designer wardrobe, her prenatal care packages, and that ridiculous diamond tennis bracelet she was wearing at her baby shower today."
Delaney stood quietly by the door, clutching her clipboard like a shield. She had helped me pull the financial records the moment she realized the depth of Caleb's betrayal.
"Jules... wait. Let's talk about this," Caleb stammered, stumbling backward until his knees hit the edge of a leather armchair. The confident, arrogant event director was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, cornered man. "We can settle this privately. We have a daughter. We can go to counseling—"
"Counseling?" I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound that made him flinch. "Caleb, you planned to evict me and my newborn baby into the marsh cottage forty-eight hours after I came home from the hospital so your pregnant mistress could move into my mother's bedroom. Counseling isn't going to fix a soul as rotten as yours."
My father stepped forward, towering over Caleb. "You have two choices, son," my father said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, rumbling growl. "You sign all three documents right now, surrender your office keys, and pack your personal belongings into your car before the sun sets. Or I call the county sheriff, hand him these financial embezzlement printouts, and let you explain to a judge why you deserve bail instead of a prison cell."
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Caleb looked from my father's granite expression to my cold, unblinking eyes. He knew my father meant every single word. Graham Voss didn't make idle threats.
With trembling, clumsy fingers, Caleb picked up the Montblanc pen I had slid across the desk—a pen I had bought him for our fifth wedding anniversary—and signed his name at the bottom of all three documents.
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