My Husband Forced Me to Serve Drinks at His Promotion Gala — Then the Board Announced I Inherited the Entire $40 Million Corporation
The tempest subsided with the dawn, leaving DuBois Manor cloaked in a new, unsettling silence. The library, however, remained sealed, Marcus still trapped within, whimpering. His terror was palpable even through the heavy oak doors.
It wasn’t long before the next phase of the unraveling began. Early that morning, Detective Raynard Moreau of the Financial Crimes Unit pulled up the long, winding driveway of DuBois Manor. He arrived in an unmarked sedan, followed by a forensic accountant, their presence a stark, official contrast to the manor’s spectral drama.
I met him at the grand entrance, my posture resolute, the emerald dress now replaced by a simple, elegant dark suit.
“Ms. DuBois-Gaines,” Detective Moreau said, his voice quiet, observant, his eyes taking in everything around him – the faded grandeur, the ancient trees, the lingering dampness from the storm. “We’re here regarding the anonymous report of corporate wire fraud.”
“I understand, Detective,” I replied, leading him into the parlor, away from the still-sealed library. “And I assure you, I have been fully cooperating with my bank to provide every piece of information possible.”
The detective’s gaze was sharp, but not accusatory. He sat, allowing his forensic accountant to set up a laptop and begin pulling digital data.
“We have indeed reviewed the transaction,” Detective Moreau stated, his voice even. “The wire transfer of $320,000 from the DuBois Heritage Corporation’s historic preservation fund into your personal checking account.”
My stomach tightened, but I kept my face impassive. “As I stated, I had no knowledge of that transfer beforehand. I immediately contacted my bank to report it as fraudulent.”
“Your immediate report was noted, Ms. DuBois-Gaines,” he said, a faint hint of something in his eyes. He leaned forward slightly. “However, our forensic analysis has revealed a peculiar detail.”
My breath hitched. This was the moment.
“The digital signature for that $320,000 transaction,” he continued, “originated from a specific IP address. An IP address that our preliminary investigation has traced directly to a private laptop. A laptop registered to Mr. Marcus Gaines.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Marcus’s meticulous plan to frame me had just imploded.
“Furthermore,” the detective added, tapping a few keys on his accountant’s laptop, “that IP address frequently connects from a residential location in the city’s Garden District. An apartment belonging to a Ms. Simone Washington.”
Simone. Marcus’s corporate co-conspirator. His mistress. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Marcus had made the transfer from Simone’s apartment, using her internet, on his private laptop, thinking it would be untraceable back to him. He believed he was burying the trail, but instead, he had just dug his own grave.
Detective Moreau closed his laptop with a soft click. “It appears, Ms. DuBois-Gaines, that your husband’s attempt to frame you for embezzlement has backfired completely. Our investigation, initially focused on you, will now be shifting entirely to Mr. Marcus Gaines.”
He rose, his expression grim. The irony was palpable. Marcus, blinded by his hubris, had used the very tools of technology he championed to incriminate himself. The anonymous tip, meant to destroy me, had instead handed the Financial Crimes Unit a direct path to his own undoing.
“I believe Mr. Gaines is still within the manor, is he not?” the detective asked, his eyes sweeping towards the part of the house where the library was.
I simply nodded. The trap Marcus had set for me had, through a twist of fate and forensic accounting, become his own.
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