The conference room smelled of leather chairs and fresh coffee. Adrian arrived early, relaxed and immaculate in a navy suit, one hand resting possessively at the small of my back as if we were the happiest couple in the building. My father’s estate adviser, Mr. Bell, greeted us with unusual formality and invited us to sit. A second man I didn’t know was already at the far end of the table, flipping through a file. Adrian barely looked at him. He was too busy arranging the papers in front of me and sliding a pen into place. “Just a few signatures,” he said with a smile.
Mr. Bell cleared his throat. “Before we begin,” he said, “there are some identity concerns we need to address.” Adrian’s expression didn’t change, but I felt his hand leave my chair. The man at the far end introduced himself as a forensic accountant working with my legal counsel. Adrian turned to me then, slow and careful, as if he’d suddenly realized the room had changed shape around him. “Naomi,” he said, almost amused, “what is this? Did you contact them beforehand?” The door opened before I could answer. Rebecca walked in first.
Whatever else Adrian was, he was disciplined. But in that one instant, discipline failed him. The color drained from his face. He stood so abruptly his chair scraped across the floor. Rebecca didn’t sit. She placed a small stack of documents on the table—old incorporation records, property links, signature comparisons, photographs. Mr. Bell added the transfer papers Adrian had hoped I would sign to the pile and folded his hands. “Nothing moves today,” he said. “In fact, nothing moves again until the court says so.”
