Chapter 19 - The Secret Beneficiary Revealed
The revelation in the archives set off a frantic chain of digital and legal investigations that lasted through the weekend. If Evan hadn't discovered the 1968 family dispute on his own, someone with access to restricted probate records had fed him the information. Someone who had a vested interest in seeing the Bennett estate torn apart from the inside out.
On Monday morning, Sarah Jenkins walked into Naomi’s office holding a printed wire-transfer log retrieved from the bank records of Evan’s shell corporation.
“I found the source of the leak,” Sarah announced, setting the paper down on the glass table. “Three weeks before Evan proposed to Claire, a fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer was deposited into Evan’s personal account from an overseas holding entity registered in the Cayman Islands.”
Naomi and I leaned in to examine the beneficiary name listed on the wire transfer document. My breath hitched in my throat. The name wasn't Arthur Sterling. It wasn't Diane Mercer.
It was Sarah’s former boss—Jonathan Vance, the estranged cousin of Richard Vance, and the former senior corporate counsel for the Bennett Corporation who had been fired by my grandfather back in 1995 for corporate espionage.
“Jonathan Vance,” I whispered, the pieces of the puzzle snapping together with terrifying clarity. “He didn't just help Evan target me. He orchestrated the entire conspiracy to steal the lake house and break the trust.”
“And he’s still out there,” Naomi said grimly. “With Evan locked away in maximum security, Jonathan is the one holding the remaining legal leverage over the foreign shell companies tied to your grandfather’s old competitors.”
Before Naomi could finish her sentence, my phone buzzed on the desk. An incoming video call from an unrecognized international number flashed across the screen.
I looked at Naomi. She nodded slowly, reaching over to tap the record button on our encrypted conference system.
I swiped to accept the call and placed the phone upright on the glass table.
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The screen flickered, revealing the dimly lit interior of a private study overlooking a sprawling European coastline. Seated in a leather armchair facing the camera was a middle-aged man with sharp graying hair, cold blue eyes, and a calm, calculating smile.
“Hello, Claire,” Jonathan Vance said smoothly, raising a glass of scotch toward the camera lens. “It took you long enough to find the 1968 file. I was beginning to think your grandfather’s bloodline had lost its edge.”
