“I don’t know what you mean.”
I lifted my espresso cup.
It was the same cup he had bought after forgetting our anniversary.
“Yes, you do.”
His eyes moved toward the counter, toward my phone, toward the hallway.
Calculation replaced surprise.
“Katarina, whatever someone sent you—”
“Twelve attachments.”
His jaw tightened.
“Sienna is unstable.”
There it was.
Not denial.
Not concern.
Blame.
“She was stable enough for Monaco.”
“You have no context.”
“I have video.”
He looked away.
I could almost see him rearranging the story inside his head, searching for the version in which he remained the injured party.
Then instinct rescued him.
His cars.
Julian always checked the garage after traveling.
He left the kitchen without another word.
I followed at a distance.
He pressed his thumb to the garage control.
The glass doors opened.
The lights came on automatically.
Julian stopped.
For the first time since I had known him, he seemed unable to manufacture a reaction quickly enough.
The entire garage was empty.
He stepped forward as though the cars might be hidden behind one another.
Then he turned.
“Where are they?”
I said nothing.
His voice rose.
“Katarina.
Where are my cars?”
“Sold.”
The word landed harder than shouting ever could.
His face changed.
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“You sold twenty-five million dollars of my property?”
“The LLC sold its collection.”
“You had no authority.”
That was when my attorney entered carrying the black folder.
Julian stared at her.
Then at the folder.
Then back at me.
I had seen that expression on executives before, usually when they realized the document they dismissed months earlier had just become the most important object in the room.
My attorney opened the operating agreement.
“You signed this,” she said.
Julian did not take it.
“I know what I signed.”
“Then you know Mrs.
Blackwood is an authorized managing signatory.”
