Then Garrett placed a folder beside my plate.
The same kind of folder Harrison had shown me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Just a temporary authorization,” he said.
“Nothing permanent.
It lets me talk to the banks, handle payroll, and help with the properties while you grieve.”
Sienna stared into her wine.
Garrett uncapped a pen.
“You don’t need to read all the legal language tonight.”
I opened the folder.
The forged version had been revised.
The signature line was blank now, but the powers granted inside were almost identical.
Transfers.
Loans.
Property control.
Authority to act if I was considered emotionally impaired.
“You had this prepared quickly,” I said.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From mistakes.” His patience thinned.
“Eliza, you’ve buried two people in less than a year.
No one expects you to think clearly.”
Sienna finally looked up.
“Maybe Garrett should handle the business side for a while.”
I turned toward her.
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s practical.”
“Mother didn’t think Garrett should control anything.”
Garrett’s pen stopped moving.
“Your mother never trusted anyone,” he said.
“She trusted Harrison.”
“Harrison is paid to make everything complicated.
I’m your husband.”
He pushed the folder toward me.
“Sign it.”
Not please.
Not when you are ready.
Sign it.
For the first time, I saw the arrogance beneath his gentleness.
He believed grief had weakened me.
He believed affection had trained me.
He believed the inheritance was already close enough to touch.
I picked up the pen.
Sienna exhaled.
Garrett smiled.
Then I set the pen down beside the folder.
“Who were you speaking to yesterday afternoon?”
His smile remained, but the warmth vanished from it.
“What?”
“In the kitchen.
You said, ‘Once I get access to those accounts, we’re set.’ Who was on the phone?”
Sienna’s glass struck the table.
Garrett looked at her before he looked at me.
It lasted less than a second.
It was enough.
“I was speaking to a financial adviser,” he said.
