Harbor Street wasn’t simply another piece of real estate.
It was the headquarters of Ellison Maritime Analytics, the company my father had spent decades building from nothing.
For two years, Daniel had acted bored whenever business came up.
Yet somehow, he always managed to ask careful questions about trusts, voting rights, real estate ownership, and management authority.
I pulled out my phone.
And I started recording.
Then Patricia said something that ended our engagement before Daniel even realized it.
“Your father always said that if you can’t make money yourself, marry someone who already has it.”
Daniel answered,
“I’m doing better than that. I’m marrying someone too emotional to protect what she owns.”
Strangely, I didn’t cry.
That surprised even me.
I quietly walked around the side of the house and entered through the basement.
I went upstairs, opened the safe, and retrieved my father’s watch.
Then I noticed Daniel’s briefcase sitting open on my desk.
Inside were unsigned property authorization documents.
My name had already been typed onto them.
So had Daniel’s.
Beside those papers was a photocopy of my father’s trust summary.
A document I had never given him.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting inside my car.
I called the hotel.
“This is Claire Ellison.”
“Yes, Ms. Ellison?”
“Cancel the wedding.”
Silence.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
Then I made another call.
This one went to Martin, my father’s longtime attorney.
“Martin,” I said, staring at the house where my fiancé had been planning my future without me, “I think Daniel finally showed us what he actually wanted.”
There was a pause.
Then Martin’s voice became serious.
“Do not confront him yet.”
I looked down at my father’s watch resting in my palm.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
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