His eyes snapped toward me.
“You planned this.”
“No,” I said.
“You planned Monaco.
I read the paperwork.”
His nostrils flared.
“Where is the money?”
“Preserved.”
“You moved it?”
“The documented proceeds are in the controlled company account pending legal review.”
His hand reached immediately for his phone.
I knew exactly what he was going to check.
Accounts.
Permissions.
Transfers.
His thumb moved faster.
Then stopped.
“What did you do?”
My attorney answered.
“We requested preservation measures and review of several transfers.”
Julian looked at me again.
“What transfers?”
I opened Sienna’s audio file.
Her voice entered the empty garage.
You didn’t notice the Cayman transfers, did you?
Julian went pale.
I stopped the recording.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then he said the sentence that confirmed more than any confession could have.
“She doesn’t understand those accounts.”
I looked at my attorney.
She looked back at me.
Julian realized his mistake.
Too late.
“I mean—there’s nothing improper.
Those are business structures.”
“Then the records will show that,” I said.
“You had no right to start digging through my private investments.”
“Our marital assets are not your private escape hatch.”
His voice hardened.
“This is exactly why I couldn’t talk to you anymore.
Everything is a transaction with you.”
I almost laughed.
He had lied about a business trip, moved money through undisclosed structures, taken another woman to Monaco, toasted his freedom on video, and returned home furious that I had become transactional.
He stepped closer.
“You want to destroy everything we built?”
“No, Julian.
I’m trying to find out what you already removed from it.”
He turned to my attorney.
“I want her out of this house.”
“The ownership and occupancy issues will be handled through counsel,” she replied.
“This is my house.”
I watched him say it.
My house.
My cars.
My money.
