Mia and I exchange quick glances before she moves around to Mom’s other side.
“What did they say, Aunt Greta?”
“They went over the autopsy report. It showed John had hypertension. It caused him to have a minor stroke when the other car struck him.” More tears spill over.
“Dad had a stroke?” The air stalls inside my chest. “But the accident killed him.”
“It did, but they’re saying the stroke was part of the cause of death. Apparently, he didn’t tell the insurance company about his hypertension. When he downgraded his policy, they treated it like a new one. So, it was still under the contestability period when he died. They’re saying because he never disclosed it, the policy is void.”
Shit, shit, shit.This is not happening. “We need that money. They can’t do that.”
“They are, honey. They’re allowing us the funeral expenses as a gesture of goodwill because your father was a customer for so long. But they won’t give us anything more.”
“Let me call them.”
Mom shakes her head. “It’s done, sweetheart. It’s done. There’s nothing anyone can say to change their minds.”
“But it’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” She whimpers, pressing a quivering hand to her heart. “I was hoping to give the payout to Knox Vale. It wouldn’t have been enough, but it would’ve been something. Maybe something to stall him.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“I couldn’t sit around and do nothing while he demands my daughter’s hand in marriage for a debt.” If possible, her skin grows even paler. “Now I have nothing to work with. I don’t know what to do.”
Mia looks at me again, her eyes full of that helpless sadness. The kind you see in someone who wants to help but can’t.
Mom may not know what to do, but I do. There was never really a choice. I knew that.
My gaze drifts back to the contract on the counter. In my mind’s eye, the words taunt me, dancing and spinning and laughing as they close in like shrinking walls.
I turn back to my mother and rest my hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll take care of everything.”
Chapter Four
Knox
So,this is my future wife.
The wordwiferolls through my mind as I study Isla Monroe’s file glowing on my computer screen.
I take a slow sip of coffee, set the mug on the desk, and lean back in my chair, my gaze still fixed on her picture.
The woman who paints illusions for a living.
The woman whose father turned illusion into fraud. The irony isn’t lost on me.
It’s early afternoon, the narrow window between meetings. I usually use this time to catch up on work in my office, but today, I’ve spent the last two hours going through all the intel my assistant gathered on my wife-to-be.
When I met Isla yesterday, I had minimal information. That’s why I was able to goad her with that remark about Brown University. Now I have everything on record.
Her files read like a checklist of mediocrity: scenic artist, freelance set designer, inconsistent income, local recognition atbest. A handful of minor credits that mean little in my world of numbers and acquisitions. Basically,nothing exceptional.
I scroll through the background report again, scanning her employment history, education, and photos pulled from social media. I’ve reviewed thousands of profiles like this. Of people who orbit my world but never touch it.
Usually, I gloss over these sorts of reports. Yet I find myself reading every line of her file twice—every time I go through it.
Maybe it’s because this woman is going to be my wife. Or maybe it’s because something in her details doesn’t add up.
