Chapter 2 - DOLORES WADE KNEW ABOUT MY FATHER’S LAKE HOUSE, AND BY MORNING I KNEW EXACTLY WHY
I did not go home that night.
Home was the townhouse Preston and I had shared for eleven months.
His clothes were there.
His files were there.
His toothbrush sat beside mine.
And after seeing my forged signature attached to a multimillion-dollar loan package, I no longer wanted to walk into any room where he had been alone with my documents.
I drove to my sister Hannah’s apartment instead.
She opened the door before I knocked.
Her mascara was smudged.
Her shoes were in one hand.
Apparently, she had left the engagement party five minutes after sending me the video of Gerald Sinclair saying the merger could not close if my guarantee was challenged.
“You look terrifying,” she said.
“I feel efficient.”
“That is worse.”
I walked inside.
She locked the door.
Then hugged me.
For approximately three seconds, I let myself be a woman whose engagement had just ended.
Then I stepped back.
“Laptop.”
Hannah stared.
“Simone.”
“Please.”
She pointed toward the dining table.
My own computer was still at the townhouse.
I would not touch it until I knew whether Preston had accessed it.
So I used Hannah’s.
Julian Marsh joined us by video at 10:31 p.m.
His face appeared beside a stack of public records he had already downloaded.
“First rule,” he said. “Do not log into any financial account from a device Preston may have accessed.”
“I’m not.”
“Second, do not contact a lender yourself tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to understand what exists before anyone starts correcting records. If fraud occurred, preserving the original false statements matters.”
Hannah sat beside me.
“Can someone explain what exactly we think Preston did?”
I opened the loan document.
“This entity, Carter-Wade Investment Holdings, borrowed against a stated net worth of twelve-point-eight million dollars.”
“Your net worth?”
“Supposedly mine and Preston’s combined.”
“You don’t have twelve million.”
“No.”
“I know. You drive a six-year-old Volvo.”
“Thank you.”
Julian interrupted.
“That does not prove anything by itself. Borrowers sometimes list entity assets.”
“These are personal.”
I showed him.
Three commercial properties.
One brokerage account.
The Asheville lake house.
Hannah leaned closer.
“Dad’s house.”
“Yes.”
My father, Thomas Carter, had died four years earlier.
He was a civil engineer, not a millionaire.
He owned a modest home outside Charlotte and a small lake house near Asheville that he had bought with my mother twenty-five years earlier.
When Mom died, Dad kept it.
After his death, the property was sold through his estate.
Or so I had believed.
The sale proceeds had been divided between Hannah and me after debts and expenses.
Neither of us had inherited the property itself.
Julian said:
“I pulled the current deed.”
My pulse changed.
“Already?”
“You asked for public records.”
He shared his screen.
The lake house had not been sold to a family I recognized.
It had been transferred from the Carter estate to an LLC called Blue Ridge Retreat Holdings.
Six weeks later, Blue Ridge transferred it to WSE Acquisition Partners.
The same entity controlled by Gerald Sinclair and Preston.
Hannah whispered:
“No.”
I stared at the date.
“The estate paid us.”
“Yes,” Julian said.
“So how could the house remain?”
“We need closing records.”
“Who was executor?”
I knew.
“My aunt was originally named.”
“She got sick.”
“Then probate court appointed professional administrator.”
“What was his name?”
“Martin Cole.”
Julian typed.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He looked toward camera.
“Martin Cole died last year.”
“So?”
“His probate-administration company shared an office address with Wade Legal Services for two years.”
I felt the room become colder.
“Wade Legal?”
“Preston’s uncle Raymond.”
Hannah sat back.
“My God.”
Preston had not met my father.
He had never needed to.
Public probate filings existed.
But someone connected to his family had been close enough to the estate process to understand exactly what property existed, when it moved, and how much Hannah and I expected to receive.
I remembered Dolores asking over Christmas dinner:
“Did your father leave real estate?”
I thought she was making conversation.
Then:
“Did you girls sell everything?”
“Yes.”
“Was there a lake property?”
“Yes.”
“How sentimental.”
She asked where.
I told her Asheville.
Not the address.
She did not need it.
Public records supplied the rest.
Julian continued.
“I’m seeing a deed signed by Martin Cole as estate administrator.”
“Transferring to Blue Ridge for four hundred eighty thousand dollars.”
“That’s about what the estate valuation was.”
“Yes.”
“Then WSE acquired it eight weeks later for one dollar plus debt assumption.”
“Who financed Blue Ridge purchase?”
“Checking.”
Hannah looked at me.
“What did we receive?”
“After taxes and estate expenses, about two hundred thousand each from property sale.”
“So there was real money.”
“Yes.”
“Then how could WSE own it?”
“If Blue Ridge bought legitimately, maybe.”
“Then the loan calling it Simone’s asset is still false.”
Exactly.
Two separate issues.
Maybe estate transfer itself legitimate.
Maybe later WSE acquired legally.
But the loan application claimed I owned the house.
I did not.
Julian said:
“I found the guaranty package source.”
“Where?”
“County filing references lender.”
“Piedmont National Bank.”
Preston had banked there since college.
His father had too.
Gerald Sinclair sat on the advisory board.
Of course.
Julian continued.
“The application lists your occupation as forensic accountant at Grant & Palmer.”
“That’s correct.”
“Income?”
I looked.
$285,000 annually.
“Close enough.”
“Brokerage account?”
“Not mine.”
He zoomed.
The account supposedly held $3.6 million at Barton Securities.
Hannah stared.
“Could someone just make that up?”
“Yes.”
“But lenders verify.”
“They should.”
Julian’s jaw tightened.
“Unless supporting statements were also fabricated.”
Then he found attachment list.
Brokerage statement.
Property schedules.
Professional resume.
Tax returns.
My tax returns.
My stomach dropped.
“Preston had copies.”
Hannah turned.
“Why?”
“We were applying for mortgage together last year.”
I had sent Preston a password-protected PDF of two years’ returns because he said the broker wanted both.
I never saw final application because the house purchase fell apart.
At least that was what he told me.
“How much did you give him?” Julian asked.
“Returns.”
“Pay stubs.”
“Driver’s license.”
“Passport copy?”
“Maybe for wedding travel.”
“Social Security number?”
“Obviously.”
The room went silent.
Enough to build an identity.
Enough to apply.
Enough to forge.
I felt stupid.
Then angry at feeling stupid.
Normal couples exchange documents.
People applying for homes share tax returns.
People planning international weddings share passport details.
Access is not permission to commit fraud.
Hannah touched my hand.
I let her.
At 11:18, Julian said:
“I found Blue Ridge financing.”
“Who?”
“Sinclair Community Bank.”
Not Gerald’s main fund.
But one of his family’s affiliated lenders.
Then:
“Dolores Wade signed as transaction witness.”
There it was.
My future mother-in-law had been at the lake-house transfer.
I remembered her uncomfortable face when Preston told me to leave.
Not shocked.
Afraid.
“Send everything to me,” I said.
“Secure channel.”
“Yes.”
Then my phone lit.
Dolores.
I looked at Hannah.
She shook her head violently.
Julian said:
“Do not answer unless you are prepared to preserve conversation lawfully and your counsel agrees.”
“I’m not.”
The call ended.
A voicemail arrived.
I played it on speaker.
“Simone, sweetheart, please call me. Preston is upset. There has been a misunderstanding tonight, and I am afraid people are going to make decisions they cannot take back.”
Sweetheart.
I felt nothing.
Then:
“The business situation is more complicated than you realize.”
My eyes lifted.
She continued.
“Your father’s property was always handled legally.”
Hannah gasped.
I stopped breathing.
I had not mentioned my father.
Not to Preston.
Not to Dolores.
Not tonight.
She knew exactly what I had found.
The voicemail continued:
“Please do not involve outside lawyers before we sit down as a family.”
There it was.
No police.
No independent attorney.
Family.
The same word people use when they want loyalty to outrank verification.
I saved the voicemail.
Julian’s expression went cold.
“That is useful.”
“She knows.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Either Preston told her what records you may find or she was already tracking the structure.”
I looked toward Hannah.
“Tomorrow morning I want my credit frozen.”
“Yes,” Julian said.
“Fraud alerts.”
“Yes.”
“Full credit reports.”
“Yes.”
“Search UCC filings.”
“Already.”
“Any entity using Carter or Simone.”
“Doing.”
“And probate file.”
“I’ll send runner in morning.”
Then Hannah asked:
“What about engagement gifts?”
I stared.
“What?”
“They’re still at club.”
For one absurd second, I laughed.
One hundred fifty guests.
Presents.
Checks.
Champagne.
A canceled wedding.
And somewhere inside all that, probable bank fraud.
“Return every gift.”
“All?”
“Yes.”
“Even Aunt Margaret’s mixer?”
“Especially mixer.”
Hannah smiled faintly.
Then Julian said:
“One more thing.”
I hated those words already.
“What?”
“I found a UCC financing statement filed nineteen months ago.”
“Debtor?”
“Carter-Wade Investment Holdings.”
“Secured party?”
“Sinclair Urban Capital.”
“Collateral?”
“All assets of debtor, plus personal guarantees.”
“Mine.”
“Yes.”
“Amount?”
He opened another document.
A revolving credit facility.
Maximum exposure:
$7.5 million.
My forged guarantee was not one isolated document.
It supported a line of credit.
And public filings showed WSE Acquisition Partners had drawn against that line three separate times.
Total current balance:
$6.9 million.
I stared.
My name had been carrying debt for almost two years without my knowledge.
Preston did not merely plan to use my identity.
He already had.
Then another filing appeared.
An amendment submitted six weeks earlier.
It increased the facility ceiling to:
$15 million.
Why?
Julian’s expression answered before words.
“The merger.”
I whispered.
Gerald’s congratulations at the party.
Two families moving forward.
The merger cannot close if her guarantee is challenged.
This was not about Preston replacing me romantically with Bri.
That may have been happening.
But the business plan was bigger.
Gerald Sinclair was preparing to fold Wade Development’s valuable assets into a Sinclair-controlled entity.
My forged financial profile was helping support financing.
And Preston had told me to leave the engagement party on the exact night he believed the deal was safe.
He thought my signature had already done its job.
He thought the ring had already delivered what he needed.
He thought he could remove the woman while keeping her credit.
By midnight, I no longer cared whether Preston loved Bri.
May you like
I wanted to know who had created a twelve-point-eight-million-dollar version of me on paper.
And how many people had already made money pretending she was real.
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