My Old-Money Husband Took Me to His Friend's Gala to Scheme in French About Leaving His Trust to an Illegitimate Child — But as CFO, I Knew His Secret
The phone rang just as I was considering the impossibility of accessing DeWitt Holdings’ network from outside. The caller ID simply read “UNKNOWN.” My hand hesitated, but a flicker of intuition urged me to answer.
“Elena Montgomery-DeWitt?” a frail, reedy voice asked.
“Speaking.”
“This is Dr. Arthur Gable,” the voice continued. “I… I believe we need to speak. About Julian.”
My heart pounded. Dr. Arthur Gable. The name from Julian’s infertility records. I hadn’t even thought he was still alive.
I met the retired physician at his modest residence in Cambridge later that afternoon. The house was quiet, filled with the scent of old books and something herbal simmering on the stove. Dr. Gable, thin and stooped, with a wispy halo of white hair, settled onto a worn armchair. He looked like a man carrying a heavy, unseen weight.
“It’s been fifteen years,” he began, his voice raspy. He reached for a glass of water, his hand trembling slightly. “A long time to keep a secret.”
He explained how, years ago, Julian’s father, a man of immense power and cold resolve, had pressured him. The DeWitt name, the family legacy, the threat of professional ruin—it had all been brought to bear.
“He wanted the records altered,” Dr. Gable confessed, his gaze fixed on his gnarled hands. “Julian’s public file. To remove any trace of his… condition. To ensure no one could ever question the DeWitt bloodline.”
He stood, shuffling towards a locked wooden cabinet. The click of the key turning in the lock was loud in the quiet room. He returned with a thick manila envelope, sealed and official-looking.
“But I kept the originals,” he said, handing me the envelope. “For my conscience. For the truth, should it ever need to be told.”
Inside were signed, notarized medical affidavits. Proof, undeniable and legally binding, of Julian’s genetic azoospermia. My fingers traced the official seals.
Then, Dr. Gable dropped another bombshell. He sat back down, a deep sigh escaping his lips.
“There’s more,” he said, his eyes now distant. “Gigi Dupont’s daughter. Her father… it wasn’t Julian.”
My breath hitched. “Who then?”
“Julian’s younger brother,” he replied, his voice barely audible. “Frederick. He had a brief, quiet affair with Gigi, shortly before his boating accident. Before his passing.”
The shock hit me like a physical blow. Frederick. Julian’s charming, restless younger brother, who had died tragically nearly seven years ago. Gigi’s child wasn’t Julian’s secret love child, but his deceased brother’s. This meant Julian wasn’t just perpetrating a fraud for personal gain; he was twisting a deeper, tragic family secret for his own ends. The depths of his manipulation seemed endless.
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