They watched as our yacht bumped against the rubber fenders of the slip.

The captain secured the lines, his hands shaking.

Diane was waiting at the gangway, flanked by two uniformed officers and a man in a plain grey suit.

“Mr. Grant Whitmore?” the man in the grey suit called out as we stepped onto the wet dock.

“I’m Detective Torres, Newport Beach Police.”

“This is a massive misunderstanding,” Grant said immediately, stepping off the boat with his hands raised slightly.

“My wife is attempting to disrupt a private business merger using falsified documents.”

“We have a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Whitmore,” Detective Torres said, pulling a folded paper from his jacket.

“It is for felony forgery, filing false documents, and grand theft.”

A camera flash went off from the crowd under the canopy.

Then another.

The reporters were moving closer, their microphones raised.

“Grant, what is happening?” Lila squealed, stepping off the gangplank behind him.

“Is this because of the deed?” a reporter shouted. “Mr. Whitmore, did you forge your wife’s signature?”

“Get these people back,” Grant snapped at the hotel security guards.