CHAP 3 — THE FIRST ATTACK
By sunrise, Olivia had become a headline.
Sebastian had not slept at Briarwood.
Neither had Camille.
Security footage showed them leaving separately shortly after midnight.
At 6:15 a.m., Olivia sat in her mother's old study wearing one of Jonathan's oversized sweaters over maternity leggings while Evelyn's team worked around her.
Laptop screens glowed.
Phones rang.
Coffee went untouched.
The lies multiplied.
Anonymous sources claimed Olivia had suffered a “serious emotional event.”
Another article suggested Jonathan Whitmore had hidden his daughter's condition to protect the family fortune.
A business network mentioned the possibility that the Legacy Trust transfer could be challenged.
At seven, Sebastian appeared on television.
He stood outside Hale Meridian headquarters.
He looked exhausted.
Concerned.
Devastated.
Perfect.
“My wife is going through an extremely difficult time,” he told reporters. “I love Olivia. I want what is best for her and our child. I hope the public will respect her privacy.”
Olivia watched silently.
Then Sebastian delivered the blade.
“There are no villains here.”
Jonathan muted the television.
Olivia said, “Turn it back on.”
“You don't need to hear this.”
“Yes, I do.”
Her father looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because I spent six years hearing him when no one else was listening.”
Jonathan understood.
He restored the sound.
Sebastian continued.
He would not discuss their marriage.
He would not speculate about her health.
He would cooperate with “any appropriate fiduciary review.”
Every sentence sounded protective.
Every sentence placed doubt into the public record.
When the interview ended, Olivia looked at Evelyn.
“What can he actually do?”
“Challenge the transfer.”
“Can he win?”
“Not on gossip.”
“What would he need?”
“Medical documentation. Witnesses. Evidence you can't responsibly exercise your authority.”
Olivia thought about Sebastian's smile the night before.
“He thinks he has it.”
Evelyn did not answer.
That frightened Olivia more than if she had.
At nine, they found the first problem.
A letter.
Signed by Dr. Malcolm Reeves.
Olivia recognized the name.
Reeves had been her physician after a miscarriage two years earlier.
The letter described insomnia, severe anxiety, disorientation, and “episodes of impaired judgment.”
Olivia stared at it.
“I had insomnia.”
Jonathan paced behind her.
“Anything else?”
“I was grieving.”
“Did Reeves diagnose you?”
“No.”
“Prescribe medication?”
“For sleep. Briefly.”
Evelyn asked, “Did you ever sign medical release forms?”
Olivia thought.
During the miscarriage, Sebastian had handled everything.
Insurance.
Appointments.
Follow-up care.
She closed her eyes.
“He had power of attorney for medical decisions for three weeks.”
Jonathan cursed softly.
Evelyn remained calm.
“That doesn't give him the right to fabricate records.”
“No,” Olivia said. “But it gave him access.”
They called Dr. Reeves.
No answer.
His office said he was traveling.
At eleven, the second attack came.
A board member filed an emergency petition seeking temporary suspension of Friday's voting transfer until Olivia's capacity could be reviewed.
The petition was supported by Reeves's letter.
By three witnesses.
Olivia read the names.
The first was Sebastian's assistant.
The second was their former house manager.
The third name made her stop breathing.
Claire Whitmore.
Her cousin.
Her closest childhood friend.
The woman who had stood beside her at her mother's funeral.
Jonathan saw the name.
His face changed.
“No.”
Olivia read Claire's sworn statement.
It described Olivia forgetting meetings.
Crying without warning.
Becoming suspicious.
Accusing Sebastian of infidelity “without evidence.”
Olivia almost laughed at that.
Without evidence.
Camille's perfume was probably still upstairs.
“Where is Claire?”
Jonathan asked.
No one knew.
Olivia called.
Voicemail.
She called again.
Nothing.
By afternoon, a judge scheduled an emergency hearing for Thursday morning.
Twenty-four hours before Olivia's birthday.
Exactly where Sebastian needed it.
“He planned all of this,” Olivia said.
Evelyn nodded.
“Some of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“The petition is too prepared.”
Olivia frowned.
“He expected my father to show up?”
“No. I think he expected resistance eventually.”
Jonathan stood by the window.
“Sebastian has been building a file.”
“For how long?”
Evelyn looked at the dates.
“Almost two years.”
Olivia felt the room shift.
Two years.
During the miscarriage.
During their anniversary trip to Maine.
During the months Sebastian attended therapy with her and held her hand while she cried.
He had been collecting material.
She stood.
“Where are you going?”
Jonathan asked.
“To my bedroom.”
“You need rest.”
“No.”
“Olivia.”
She turned.
“I have spent one night learning what Sebastian knows about me.”
Her voice remained calm.
“Now I want to know what I know about him.”
Upstairs, she opened drawers.
Files.
Closets.
The home office Sebastian rarely allowed cleaners to enter.
Nothing.
Then she remembered a habit.
Sebastian hated digital clutter.
But he kept physical copies of documents that frightened him.
Insurance policies.
Original contracts.
Old tax files.
Olivia knelt beside a cabinet built behind a panel in his dressing room.
Locked.
She stared at it.
Then remembered something small.
Three years earlier, while replacing a watch, Sebastian had dropped a brass key.
She had found it under the bed.
He had taken it quickly and laughed.
“Old office key.”
Olivia walked to his jewelry case.
Empty.
Of course.
Then she looked at the wooden valet tray he had left behind.
She lifted it.
Nothing.
She turned it over.
A thin strip of black tape ran along the underside.
Her pulse quickened.
Beneath it was a key.
The cabinet opened.
Inside were five folders.
One said WHITMORE.
One said OLIVIA.
One said NORTHSTAR.
The fourth had no label.
The fifth contained photographs.
Olivia pulled them out.
Sebastian.
Claire.
A hotel lobby.
Another photograph.
They were kissing.
The date printed in the corner was eight months earlier.
Olivia did not cry.
Then she saw the final image.
Claire handing Sebastian a folder.
May you like
Across the front, in her mother's handwriting, were two words.
FRIDAY CLAUSE.
