My stomach tightened. "Irregularities meaning…?"
"Several large withdrawals in the six months before the bankruptcy. Transfers to an offshore account in the Caymans. They were made under your authorisation."
My pulse spiked. "That's impossible. I never —"
"I believe you," Graham said smoothly, "but the problem is, the documentation says otherwise. Someone had access to your signature. Your login credentials. This wasn't a sloppy theft — it was deliberate and well-timed."
I stared at him, the words sinking like lead into my bloodstream. "Who?"
He hesitated, glancing at the second solicitor beside him, a younger man scribbling notes.
"We can't prove it yet," Graham said, "but the pattern suggests someone close. A senior employee. Perhaps a business partner."
I felt a cold flush creep up my neck. Images flickered in my mind — the boardroom, late-night strategy meetings, coffee cups gone cold as I worked alongside people I trusted. Faces I'd defended when others doubted them.
"Amelia," Graham continued gently, "this kind of fraud doesn't happen without forethought. Whoever did this wanted not just to take the money, but to ruin you. Completely."
My throat felt raw. "And if they succeed?"
"Without evidence to clear you, you could be facing charges. Fraud, misappropriation of funds. Prison time."
The words were clinical, but they slammed into me with brutal force.
I sat back, gripping the armrests until my fingers ached. Mark had been one kind of predator — loud, violent, obvious. This was another entirely. A ghost in my own life, smiling while they hollowed me out.
And if Graham was right, I'd been sleeping beside the knife before it was turned.
I don't even remember standing up from the chair. One moment Graham's voice was still echoing in my head — prison time — and the next I was outside in the brittle London air, my breath fogging in front of me like smoke.
Brandon was waiting by the door. He straightened when he saw me, his eyes scanning my face the way they always did now, looking for damage.
"What happened in there?" he asked.
I shook my head, fumbling with my coat buttons. "Not here."
We got into the street and caught our bus, the silence thick and pressing until he finally spoke again. "Amelia, talk to me. Please."
I swallowed, staring out of the window as the city rolled past, all grey stone and winter sky. My voice felt like it belonged to someone else when I finally said, "They think the company funds were stolen. Transferred offshore. Using my credentials."
Brandon's hands tightened on the wheel. "That's insane. You —"
"I know." My laugh was bitter and short. "But the evidence says otherwise."
"Then someone close to you did it."
"Yes." The word was a whisper. My mind was already moving — faces, names, possibilities. People I'd trusted, people who'd trusted me. And then…
It hit me so hard I almost gasped.
My parents.
They'd built the company, nurtured it from a tiny financial advice consultancy into a huge brand. And when they'd announced their "sabbatical" ten months ago—off to Bali for a year of sun, yoga, and writing—they'd insisted I take over as CEO. I'd thought it was trust. Pride. A chance to prove myself.
But they had access. Every password, every account. They'd set up the infrastructure. They could have done it from anywhere in the world.
The betrayal settled into my bones like frost.
"Amelia?" Brandon glanced at me, his brow furrowed.
I met his eyes. "I think… it might have been my parents."
After that, I said nothing. Brandon didn't press, but I could feel his questions hovering in the air between us, heavy and unspoken.
"I need to go home," I said finally.
His brow furrowed. "Okay… we'll head straight there."
"No," I shook my head. "My home. Now that Mark's gone, there's nothing to worry about. You don't need to keep looking after me."
"Amelia…" His voice softened. "You don't have to do this. I want to be here for you."
"I'll be fine," I insisted, forcing a smile I wasn't sure reached my eyes. "You need to get some rest too."
He hesitated, searching my face as if he could find the truth in it. But I held the smile, steady enough to convince him — almost.
"Really, Brandon. Go home."
I didn't want him to see me like this — hollowed out, shaking on the inside. If I let him close right now, everything might spill out before I'd had the chance to lock it down.
"All right," he said finally, but his voice was tight. "Call me if you need me. Anytime."
"I will."
I stepped out into the sharp evening air, the city noises suddenly too loud after the muffled quiet of his car. My flat was just as I'd left it —neat, still smelling faintly of the dried flowers I used to have out. It should have been comforting, but instead the walls felt closer than I remembered.
I set my bag down, leaned against the kitchen counter, and let my head fall into my hands. Mark was dead. The constant dread of seeing him around every corner was gone. But in its place… a new fear was growing, colder and heavier.
Family. Betrayal. And the knowledge that this wasn't over.
The silence in my flat was immediate and absolute. It should have felt like a sanctuary. Instead, the quiet pressed against my ears, too loud, too empty.
For the first time in over two weeks, there was no one in the same room, no low voice asking if I wanted tea, no quiet weight of someone else's presence to anchor me. I realised how much I'd grown used to him being near.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing. Mark was gone. But the unease hadn't left with him — it had just shifted shape.
I moved through the flat like a stranger, my steps sounding too loud in the stillness. I made tea I didn't drink, switched on the TV only to mute it seconds later.
It had been so long since I was truly alone that I'd forgotten how heavy the nights could feel. Every creak of the building made me pause. Every car passing outside sent shadows shifting across the walls.
When I finally went to bed, sleep didn't come. I lay on my side, staring at the darkened window, replaying the solicitor's words until my stomach knotted. The betrayal gnawed at me, sharper than fear, and behind it all sat the unanswered question — why?
Somewhere, in the quiet hours, I drifted into a shallow, uneasy doze. I dreamed of Mark's eyes watching me from the shadows of my own flat. I dreamed of voices I couldn't place, whispering numbers and names I didn't understand. I woke with my heart hammering and the taste of panic on my tongue.
The flat felt colder in the pre-dawn light. My phone sat silent on the bedside table, but I kept staring at it anyway, as though willing it to ring would make Brandon call.
I didn't feel safe. Not really. And I wasn't sure if that was because of the people who had already hurt me… or the ones who still could.