My Late Business Partner's Stranger Protégé Demand My Last $650,000 to Save His Campaign — Then a DNA Test Brought His Empire Down
The following afternoon, my phone began to ring incessantly. It wasn’t Lydia this time, or Arthur. It was numbers I didn’t recognize, local area codes I hadn’t seen before. I hesitated, then answered the fifth call, my voice tight.
“Eleanor Gable?” a man’s voice asked, brisk and formal. “This is Mark Jensen from the *Ohio Sentinel*. We’ve received a tip regarding an illegal straw-donor scheme tied to the Kincaid campaign.”
My heart leaped into my throat. “A straw-donor scheme? What are you talking about?”
“Our sources indicate that your name appears on several unauthorized wire transfers, totaling over fifty thousand dollars,” Jensen continued, his tone accusatory. “Transfers made to obscure shell organizations, then funneled back into the Kincaid campaign. Are you prepared to comment on allegations that you masterminded this operation?”
My mind raced. Unauthorized wire transfers. Fifty thousand dollars. My digital signature. It had to be Chloe. She was retaliating, trying to pin their campaign’s financial mess on me.
“That’s absolutely false,” I asserted, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “I have no knowledge of any such transfers, and I certainly did not authorize them.”
“Our sources are very specific,” Jensen insisted. “They claim to have documentation with your digital signature. Are you denying you approved these transactions?”
I hung up, my hand clammy. The phone immediately rang again. Another reporter. Then another. My new, quiet townhouse felt suddenly besieged. The isolation Marcus had tried to impose was now ironically protecting me from the full media frenzy, but the accusations were still cutting through.
Chloe was trying to make me take the criminal fall. If these transactions were indeed illegal, and my name was attached, I would be facing serious charges. Straw donors were a huge problem in campaign finance, designed to hide the true source of funds.
I immediately called Arthur. He answered on the second ring, his voice already sounding stressed.
“Eleanor, are you getting calls?” he asked without preamble.
“Yes. Reporters asking about a straw-donor scheme. Fifty thousand dollars, transfers with my digital signature.”
“Damn it,” Arthur muttered. “They’re moving fast. My team just got word of these transfers too. It seems Chloe sneaked an unauthorized wire transfer form into the campaign’s accounting portal late last night. She used a copy of your digital signature from previous, legitimate documents.”
“She’s trying to pin their deficit on me,” I said, the realization chilling. “To make it look like I was the one trying to illegally prop up the campaign’s finances.”
“Precisely,” Arthur confirmed. “They’re trying to shift all the blame. If these transfers are deemed illegal, and your name is on them, you’re looking at severe penalties. They want to make you the scapegoat.”
“Can they do that?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The thought of facing criminal charges, of my carefully rebuilt life being shattered, was terrifying.
“It will be their word against yours, unless we can prove those signatures were forged and unauthorized,” Arthur replied. “We need concrete evidence, Eleanor. Something irrefutable that shows you had no knowledge, no involvement, and were physically unable to have made those transfers.”
The phone in my hand felt heavy. Chloe hadn’t just tried to isolate me socially; she was now actively attempting to send me to prison. The quiet fight for my dignity had just escalated into a desperate struggle for my freedom.
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