We spent the next three hours mapping out the details. Project Green Inheritance was born. We drafted the fake legal documents. My father called his most vicious lawyer, a man named Sterling, who scared even me, to prepare the real divorce filing and the fraud lawsuit.
When I left my parents’ house that evening, I felt lighter than I had in years. The victim was gone. The architect of their destruction was driving the car.
I texted Richard.
“Great meeting with Dad. He wants to talk to you about a massive opportunity. Hurry home.”
I saw the three dots of his reply appear instantly.
“On my way. Love you.”
Love me. Right. He loved the smell of money. And he was about to catch a whiff of the biggest meal he’d ever choke on.
That evening, I set the stage. I opened a bottle of vintage Cabernet, one Richard had been saving for a “special occasion.” I lit candles. I put on the jazz playlist he liked to pretend he understood.
When he walked in, he looked flushed. He had probably driven ninety miles an hour to get here after my text.
“Laura!” he called out, dropping his keys. “What’s all this?”
“Celebration,” I said, handing him a glass of wine. I was wearing my best silk robe. I had to sell the fantasy. “I talked to Dad today. Really talked to him—about us, about your potential.”
Richard’s eyes widened. He took the glass, his fingers brushing mine.
“And?”
“And he agrees with me,” I said, leading him to the sofa. “He thinks he’s been too hard on you. He thinks you’re ready for the next level.”
I took a deep breath, channeling every ounce of acting skill I possessed.
“Dad wants to liquidate the Blue Water trust—the one with the five million.”
Richard nodded, trying to look calm, but I saw the pulse jumping in his neck.
“Okay. And… distribute it to you?”
“No,” I said. “He wants to double it. He wants to combine it with his personal liquidity fund. Ten million, Richard. He wants to transfer it into a new management LLC, and he wants you to be the managing partner.”
Richard stopped breathing. I literally saw him stop breathing.
“Ten million,” he choked out. “Control. Power. Managing partner… me?”
“Yes,” I beamed. “He says he’s getting too old to micromanage these aggressive funds. He needs young blood. He wants to set it up next week. But…”
I paused, looking worried.
“But what?” Richard leaned forward, his hunger palpable.
“He needs you to sign some heavy paperwork. Since you’d be the managing partner, you’d have to sign the liability waivers and the capital guarantees. It’s standard stuff, Dad says, just to keep the IRS off our backs. But it puts you legally in charge.”
“I can handle it,” Richard said immediately. He didn’t even ask what a capital guarantee entailed. He just heard “legally in charge.” “I’ve handled complex deals before, Laura. You know that.”
“I know.” I touched his cheek. “I told him you were the smartest man I know. We’re going to be so rich, Richard. We can finally buy that villa in Tuscany you always talk about. We can do anything.”
He grabbed me and kissed me. It was a passionate, fervent kiss. But it wasn’t for me. It was for the ten million.
I kissed him back, thinking about how much I was going to enjoy watching him sign his life away.
“I need to make a call,” he said, pulling away abruptly. “Just checking on a client to clear my schedule for next week.”
“Go ahead, darling,” I smiled.
He practically ran into the hallway. I stayed on the sofa and quietly picked up the baby monitor receiver I had hidden under a stack of magazines. I had placed the transmitter in the hallway planter earlier that day. I put the receiver to my ear.
“Monica, listen to me,” Richard’s voice was a frantic whisper. “We have to wait. No, shut up and listen. It’s ten million. Ten million. Double the payout.”
Pause. Monica must have been screaming on the other end.
“I know, I know you want to leave now,” Richard hissed. “But can you imagine the difference between five and ten? We can live like royalty. We never have to work again. Just hold on. Two more weeks. The paperwork gets signed next week. Once the funds hit the LLC, I wire it out and we are ghosts.”
Pause.
“I love you, too. Look, buy yourself something nice. Buy that car you wanted. Put it on the emergency card. It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re going to be richer than God.”
He hung up.
I set the receiver down. My hands were steady. He was going to wire the funds out. He thought he was going to empty the account. He didn’t know that the account he would be given access to would be a restricted escrow account, and the wire transfer he attempted would trigger the immediate enforcement of the personal guarantee. He was going to attempt grand larceny, and in doing so, he would trigger a debt that would bury him.
He walked back into the living room, a smile plastered on his face.
“All sorted,” he said. “My schedule is clear. I’m all yours.”
“To us,” I said, raising my glass.
“To us,” he replied, clinking his glass against mine.
To me, I thought, and to the hell I’m about to rain down on you.
The week leading up to the signing was a masterclass in psychological torture. Richard was on his best behavior, playing the doting husband so intensely it was nauseating. But Monica—Monica was cracking.
I invited them both to dinner at a high-end seafood restaurant downtown. I told them it was a pre-celebration for the big business deal. I wanted to see them in the same room. I wanted to see the tension.
Monica arrived wearing a tight dress that accentuated her bump. She looked tired. Her ankles were swollen. Richard, meanwhile, was glowing, wearing a new suit he had undoubtedly bought with my money.
“You look exhausted, Mon,” I said as we sat down. “Doesn’t she, Richard?”
Richard barely glanced at her. He was too busy looking at the wine list.
“She looks fine. So, Laura, did your dad mention the notary date?”
“Tuesday. Tuesday,” I said. “But let’s not talk business yet. Let’s talk about the baby. Monica, you must be so excited.”
Monica glared at Richard.
“I am, but it’s hard doing it alone. You know, without a partner to help with the heavy lifting.”
It was a direct shot at Richard.
“Well, you have us,” I said, patting her hand. “Richard has been so helpful, haven’t you, honey? He’s been looking at nursery themes with me.”
Richard froze. He hadn’t been looking at nursery themes with me. I was lying. But he couldn’t deny it without looking like a bad husband in front of the money source, and he couldn’t agree without pissing off Monica.
“I just glanced at a few,” Richard stammered.
“He wants a jungle theme,” I told Monica, “which is funny because I remember you saying you wanted a jungle theme for your baby. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
Monica’s fork clattered onto her plate. She turned to Richard, her eyes blazing.
“You’re looking at nursery themes for her guest room?”
“It’s just talk,” Richard said quickly, sweating. “Laura, let’s order. The lobster looks amazing.”
“I want the lobster,” Monica said petulantly. “And the caviar.”
“Get whatever you want,” I said. “It’s on me
Throughout the dinner, I kept the spotlight on Richard’s “success” and how much I relied on him. I talked about how we were planning a second honeymoon to the Maldives next month.
“The Maldives?” Monica interrupted. “I thought you couldn’t fly because of your blood pressure.”
I looked at her, confused.
“My blood pressure is perfect. Why would you think that?”
Monica looked at Richard. Richard looked at his plate. He had obviously told her the lie about my health to keep her hopeful that I might die soon.
“Oh,” Monica mumbled. “I must have misunderstood.”
“Richard is taking me to the Maldives,” I continued, twisting the knife. “It’s going to be so romantic. Just the two of us reconnecting.”
I saw Monica reach under the table. A second later, Richard flinched and jerked his leg. She had kicked him.
“Actually,” Richard said, his voice high and tight. “Maybe we should wait on the trip, Laura, with the new business. I’ll be very busy.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “We can celebrate. Unless… is there a reason you can’t go?”
“No,” Richard said, miserable. “No reason.”
Monica suddenly stood up.
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
She stormed off.
“You should go check on her, Richard,” I said innocently. “She seems hormonal. You’re so good with people.”
“I… I should stay here with you,” he said. He was terrified to leave me alone, terrified I’d suspect something. He was prioritizing the money over his pregnant mistress. I watched him make that choice. He chose the ten million over his unborn child and the woman he claimed to love.
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Go. I’ll order dessert.”
He hesitated, then got up and walked toward the restrooms.
I waited five seconds, then followed them. I didn’t go into the bathroom. I stood in the corridor near the alcove where the pay phones used to be. I heard hushed, angry whispering coming from the hallway near the emergency exit.
“You are humiliating me,” Monica hissed. “Talking about honeymoons, jungle themes. You’re playing house with her while I’m carrying your kid.”
“Keep your voice down,” Richard snapped. “Do you want to blow this? It’s ten million, Monica. For ten million, I will dance a jig in a tutu if she asks me to. Just shut up and eat your lobster. In two weeks, she’s history.”
“I hate her,” Monica sobbed. “I hate her so much. She sits there so smug, throwing her money around.”
“She’s a fool,” Richard said. “She’s a pathetic, lonely fool. And we are going to bleed her dry. Now wipe your face and get back out there. We are almost at the finish line.”
I stepped back into the shadows as they composed themselves. We are almost at the finish line, he said. He was right. But he didn’t realize that the finish line was actually the edge of a cliff, and I was the one who had greased the edge.
I went back to the table and sat down. When they returned, I was smiling.
“I ordered the chocolate lava cake,” I said. “It’s going to be explosive.”
The dinner with Richard and Monica had confirmed their greed, but in the eyes of the law, greed isn’t a crime. Adultery, however, in our state and under the ironclad terms of our prenuptial agreement, was a breach of contract that could strip Richard of any claim to spousal support. But I needed more than just a recording of a phone call, which a good lawyer could argue was obtained illegally or taken out of context.
I needed biological proof. I needed to tie Richard to that baby with a knot so tight even Houdini couldn’t slip out of it. I needed his DNA, and I needed hers.
Richard was easy. I pulled hairs from his hairbrush every morning just out of habit, to keep the sink clean. But Monica? Monica was the challenge.
Two days after the dinner, I texted Monica.
“Hey, I found some incredible vintage maternity clothes in the attic that my mom saved. Chanel, Dior—they would look amazing on you. Want me to drop them by?”
The trap was baited with vanity. Monica couldn’t resist high-end labels. She texted back immediately.
“OMG, yes. I’m at the apartment. Come over.”
The apartment. The “bachelorette pad” she claimed she was renting with her savings. In reality, it was a $3,500-a-month condo in Bellevue that Richard paid for using funds siphoned from my retirement account.
I drove over with a garment bag full of clothes I had bought at a thrift store and dry-cleaned to look expensive. When she opened the door, the smell of the place hit me. It smelled like him. His cologne was in the air. His shoes were by the door. It was a second home—a shadow life they were living right under my nose.
“Laura!” She hugged me, her eyes immediately darting to the garment bag. “You are a lifesaver. Nothing fits me anymore.”
“Happy to help,” I smiled, stepping inside. “Can I use your restroom? That coffee went right through me.”
“Sure, down the hall,” she said, already unzipping the bag to get to the “Chanel.”
I walked into the bathroom. It was masterfully cluttered with her beauty products. And there, in a ceramic cup by the sink, were two toothbrushes—one pink, one blue. I pulled a Ziploc bag from my purse. I grabbed the blue toothbrush—Richard’s. I knew the brand. He had sensitive gums. I bagged it. Then I grabbed a hairbrush full of long blonde strands from the counter. Monica’s. I bagged that, too.
But I needed something directly linking the pregnancy to Richard. A toothbrush proves he sleeps here, not that he’s the father. I opened the cabinet under the sink. Nothing but towels. I checked the small trash can in the corner. It was mostly tissues and makeup wipes. I dug a little deeper, ignoring the revulsion rising in my throat.
And there it was: a crumpled piece of thermal paper. I smoothed it out. It was a receipt from the OB-GYN clinic from three days ago.
Emerald City Obstetrics.
Patient: Monica Stevens.
Guarantor/Responsible party: Richard Vance.
Service: 24-week ultrasound.
He had signed for it. He had literally put his name on the financial responsibility form for the ultrasound. He was so arrogant, so sure I would never see this, that he didn’t even use cash.
I took a photo of the receipt and then slipped the original into my pocket.
“Everything okay in there?” Monica called out.
“Just washing my hands,” I chirped.
I flushed the toilet for effect and walked out. Monica was holding up a silk blouse against her chest in the hallway mirror.
“This is gorgeous,” she said. “Is it real vintage?”
“It is,” I lied. “It looks perfect on you. Wear it to the party.”
“I will,” she beamed. “By the way, Richard said the business deal is happening Tuesday. He seems stressed but excited.”
“He is,” I said, walking to the door. “He’s about to become a very powerful man, Monica. We should all be ready for changes.”
“I’m ready,” she said, rubbing her belly. “I was born ready.”
I drove straight to the private lab my lawyer Sterling had recommended. I handed over the Ziploc bags and the receipt.
“I need a rush on this,” I told the technician. “I need a paternity profile and a comparative analysis. I need to know that the DNA on this blue toothbrush matches the DNA of the father and I need it to match the husband.”
“We can have a preliminary match in forty-eight hours,” the technician said. “But for court-admissible—”
“I don’t need it for court yet,” I interrupted. “I need it for a video presentation.”
He looked at me, confused, but took the credit card.
Driving home, I felt a strange sense of calm. The pieces were locking into place. I had the financial trap set with my father. I had the social trap set with the party. And now I had the biological trap.
Richard came home that night whistling. He kissed me on the cheek.
“Big day tomorrow with your dad,” he said. “I’ve been reviewing the prospectus.”
“You’re going to do great,” I said, stroking his lapel. “Just make sure you sign everything. Dad hates hesitation.”
“I won’t hesitate,” Richard promised.
He had no idea. He was about to sign his own death warrant, and he was whistling while he did it.
Tuesday morning arrived with a gray, ominous sky, the kind of Seattle weather that usually made Richard complain about his joints. But today, he was electric. He spent an hour in front of the mirror adjusting his tie, checking his teeth. He looked like a man preparing to accept an Oscar.
“Do I look like a managing partner?” he asked, turning to me.
“You look like a ten-million-dollar man,” I said.
It wasn’t a lie. That was exactly the amount of debt he was about to incur.
We drove to my father’s office in the city. The Reynolds building was a steel-and-glass monolith that Richard always stared up at with envy. Today, he walked in like he owned it.
My father, Arthur, was waiting for us in the boardroom. The table was long enough to land a plane on. Sitting next to him was a man Richard didn’t know—Mr. Sterling, introduced simply as the family’s legal consultant for the trust.
“Richard,” my father said, standing up but not offering a hand. “Good to see you.”
“Arthur,” Richard nodded, trying to match my father’s gravitas. “Ready to get to work.”
“Excellent. Let’s not waste time.”
My father slid a stack of documents across the polished mahogany. They were thick, bound in blue covers, looking every bit the official transfer of wealth Richard had dreamed of.
“As Laura explained,” my father began, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, “we are consolidating the Blue Water assets into a new entity, Vance-Reynolds Capital, to avoid the gift tax and the inheritance delays. We are structuring this as a leveraged buy-in.”
Richard nodded sagely, but I could tell by the glaze in his eyes he didn’t understand half of what Arthur was saying. He just heard Vance-Reynolds Capital—his name first.
“You will be the sole managing director,” Sterling piped up, tapping the paper. “This gives you unrestricted trading authority. However, to satisfy the SEC and the banking covenants, the director must personally guarantee the leverage line. It’s a formality. The assets cover the loan ten times over.”
“Of course,” Richard said, reaching for the silver pen. “Standard procedure.”
“Read it carefully, Richard,” I said softly, feigning concern. “It’s a big commitment.”
He shot me a look that said, Shut up. Let me handle this.
“I know what I’m doing, Laura.”
