Chapter 3 - THE NUMBERS I NEVER WANTED TO ADD
The next morning, I canceled the wedding before I canceled the relationship. That order
surprised even me, but logistics became easier than grief. I called the venue, florist,
caterer, photographer, quartet, and planner in a sequence so mechanical I felt like an
employee dismantling someone else's event. Some deposits were refundable, some were not, and
one vendor told me Corinne had recently authorized an upgrade using my name. By noon, the
ceremony scheduled for six weeks later had collapsed into spreadsheets, cancellation
policies, and a silence I could not yet bring myself to fill.
Then I called Foster Kray.
Foster had represented my marketing agency through two contract disputes and one ugly vendor
lawsuit. He was the kind of attorney who never raised his voice because he did not need to.
I told him about the assault, the police report, the hospital documentation, and the
security footage. He listened. Then I told him the part I had not yet admitted to anyone
with the numbers fully attached.
For almost three years, I had been funding Weston's company.
It began small. Twelve thousand dollars for software licensing after a client delayed
payment. Then twenty-five thousand to make payroll during what Weston called a temporary
slowdown. Then thirty-eight thousand for a new product launch he swore would attract venture
capital. I paid his business credit card twice. I covered rent on an office he insisted made
the company look more legitimate. I transferred money to a supplier whose invoice I never
saw. In total, based on what I could remember immediately, I had given or loaned him well
over two hundred thousand dollars.
"How much of this is documented?" Foster asked.
"Almost all of it."
That was the benefit of being the kind of person who saved everything. I kept wire
confirmations, emails, text messages, promissory notes Weston had signed on two of the
larger transfers, and spreadsheets tracking what he told me each payment was for. I had
believed organization was merely responsible business practice. Now it looked like armor I
had built without knowing I would one day need it.
By evening, Foster had a secure folder containing three years of my financial history with
Weston. Two days later, he called me into his office.
"I need you to prepare yourself," he said.
He had hired a forensic accountant.
The initial review showed patterns I had missed because I had never seen Weston's full
books. Money I sent for payroll was sometimes transferred within hours to a personal account
jointly accessible by Weston and Corinne. A payment I believed covered product development
was followed by a deposit on a luxury SUV. Company funds paid for a Caribbean trip Weston
told me had been gifted by a client. Several restaurant charges matched dates he claimed to
be at investor meetings, though the restaurants were in the resort town where Corinne owned
a vacation condo.
Worst of all, the business itself was far weaker than Weston had represented. There were
clients, but not enough revenue to justify the image he projected. Investors had not been
circling. A major contract he claimed was awaiting signature had never existed in the form
he described. He had been using my money to create the appearance of growth, and that
appearance had encouraged me to keep providing more money.
I felt humiliated before I felt angry.
That reaction bothered me because humiliation belonged to the person who had done something
wrong, yet there I was sitting in Foster's office wondering how I could have been so blind.
He stopped me before I could spiral too far.
"Trust is not negligence," he said. "But now that you know, what you do next matters."
I went home and opened every account I had once shared access to. Weston had never been a
co-owner of my primary assets, but he knew enough about my routines that Foster advised
immediate changes. I replaced passwords, revoked permissions, froze one linked card, and
created a written inventory of every item Weston still had in my house. I also informed my
agency's finance director that no request from Weston Whitmore was to be honored under any
circumstances.
That same night, Weston called from a new number.
I almost did not answer. Something in me wanted to hear whether he would apologize, truly
apologize, without explanation or blame.
He lasted thirty seconds.
He said his mother had lost control. He said the business expenses would make sense if I let
him explain. He said the wedding could still happen privately once everyone calmed down. He
said the baby deserved two parents. Then he said the sentence that ended any remaining
illusion between us.
"After everything I've built for us, you can't destroy my company over one bad afternoon."
I laughed once, quietly.
"What you built?" I asked. "With whose money?"
Silence.
For the first time, I heard fear on the other end of the line.
I told him all future communication would go through attorneys. Then I ended the call and
blocked the number.
The apartment felt enormous afterward. I stood in the nursery we had barely begun preparing,
surrounded by unopened boxes: a crib, a lamp shaped like a moon, soft yellow curtains my
mother had chosen. I had thought the room represented our future. Now it represented mine.
I placed my hand on my stomach and felt the faintest flutter.
Not a dramatic kick. Not a movie moment. Just something small, uncertain, and alive.
May you like
"I don't know exactly what comes next," I whispered.
But for the first time since the front door locked, not knowing felt better than pretending.
