Armed with Oliver’s preliminary report, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach, but also a surge of cold clarity. The truth, however painful, was a weapon. I took a taxi directly to Julian’s prestigious law office in Mayfair.
The receptionist, a young woman with a perfectly coiffed blonde bob, looked me up and down.
“Do you have an appointment, Ms. Harrington?” she asked, her voice clipped.
“Tell Julian it’s Eleanor,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “And it’s urgent.”
A few minutes later, Julian himself appeared in the reception area, his usual confident stride replaced by a hurried pace. He spotted the binder in my hand. His eyes narrowed.
“Eleanor,” he said, his tone low. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk,” I said, holding his gaze.
He led me into a pristine, glass-walled boardroom. The polished mahogany table gleamed under the recessed lights. Marcus Danforth, Julian’s senior partner and ruthless high-society lawyer, was already seated, a predatory smile playing on his lips.
Danforth slid a thick, 12-page document across the table towards me. “A simple non-disclosure agreement, Ms. Harrington. Sign it, and we can unfreeze your paltry personal account within two hours. Consider it a peace offering.”
Julian sat stiffly, his gaze fixed on the table.
I ignored Danforth. “Julian,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence. “The £450,000 mortgage. The signature. It’s forged. Oliver confirmed it.”
Julian’s face went white. A flicker of panic crossed his features before he quickly masked it. His hand tightened on the armrest of his chair.
Danforth chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound. “Forged? My dear Ms. Harrington, that’s quite a serious accusation. Are you quite sure you’re in a fit state to be making such claims?”
He leaned forward, his eyes like cold steel. “If you refuse to sign this agreement, I will personally file an immediate ex-parte court order. It will declare you mentally unfit to manage estate archives, effective tomorrow morning. Your professional reputation, what little you have, will be in tatters.”
He picked up a pen, twirling it idly. “Think of the headlines, Eleanor. The quiet archivist, driven mad by delusions of grandeur. It would be quite a spectacle.”
My hand gripped the edge of the table. The freezing of my account felt like a distant memory. This was about more than money now. This was about my entire life.
+ There are no comments
Add yours