Oliver arrived home the next day, his usual boisterous greeting subdued. He carried his worn university rucksack, his shoulders slumped.
“Mum,” he began, dropping the bag in the hallway. “What happened at Dad’s office?”
I told him the sanitized version, leaving out the offshore deeds for now, focusing only on the perfume and Mark’s public humiliation.
Oliver’s jaw tightened. “So he’s really with Chloe?”
“That seems to be the case.”
I saw the anger building in him, a familiar protectiveness for me.
“Stay out of this, Ollie,” I warned, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s messy.”
He nodded, but his eyes held a glint of defiance.
That night, after I’d gone to bed, a faint click from the front door woke me. I heard his car start in the driveway.
He was disobeying me.
Oliver drove into central London, heading straight for Mark’s private studio flat. Mark kept it for late-night work sessions, a place I rarely visited.
He used his spare key, the one Mark had given him years ago “for emergencies,” and let himself in. The flat was dark, smelling faintly of Mark’s expensive cologne and stale coffee.
Oliver moved through the shadows, flicking on only his phone’s torch. He knew Mark’s habits, knew where he kept important things.
His eyes landed on a heavy oak desk in the corner.
He worked quickly, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of a small lock on the top-right drawer. It wasn’t a complex lock.
He remembered watching Mark pick it once with a paperclip when he’d lost the key. Oliver found a bent paperclip from a discarded pile of papers.
A soft click. The drawer slid open.
Inside, beneath a stack of old business cards, he found a slim, red leather-bound ledger and a set of bank statements.
He recognized the logo of the private wealth bank. His late grandfather had set up his £120,000 university trust fund there years ago.
Oliver pulled out the statements, his phone torch illuminating the dates.
He flipped through them, his breath catching in his throat.
Systematic withdrawals. Not just a few. Over twenty-four months.
Large sums, £5,000 here, £8,000 there. Each marked “Transfer to Finch Holdings Ltd” or “Payment to Davies Innovations.”
Davies Innovations. Chloe’s startup company.
The £120,000, his inheritance, his future education fund, was gone. Drained.
He clenched his fist around the statements, the crinkle of paper loud in the silent flat. Mark hadn’t just cheated on me. He’d stolen from his own son.
Oliver carefully placed the ledger and statements back, relocking the drawer. He left the flat, the key burning a hole in his pocket, the night air doing little to cool his anger.
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