The dates went back three years, starting only months after our wedding.

They hadn’t just been planning to take the estate.

They had been systematically draining my inheritance to cover the debts of the collapsing Ashford empire.

I found a section labeled *Project Meridian*.

Beneath it were medical reports signed by Dr. Marren.

They detailed a treatment plan for my alleged “progressive cognitive decline.”

The documents argued that I was unfit to manage my own affairs, recommending Harrison be granted full power of attorney.

The date on the recommendation was set for the end of this week.

They were going to lock me away in a private facility and use these forged papers to liquidate everything.

“My god,” I whispered, the sound of my own voice shaking in the damp chamber.

I held my phone over the ledger, snapping photos of every page as fast as my thumb could move.

The flash illuminated the dark stone walls of the vault in rhythmic, blinding bursts.

The sheer scale of the betrayal made my chest tighten.

Beatrice had known.

Sloane had known.