“I can’t.”
The answer struck you harder than a slap.
“Can’t?” You laughed once, unbelieving. “What do you mean, can’t?”
Celia stepped closer. “Because everything I told you about my feelings was true. But everything I didn’t tell you is why they’re here.”
Helena opened the folder.
“Your wife is not merely a landowner or investor,” she said. “She is the legal custodian of one of the largest privately held asset structures in the region, including international holdings, family trusts, protected accounts, and legacy agreements subject to active threat.”
You stared at her.
The words meant almost nothing.
Asset structure. Legacy agreements. Active threat.
They were big-room words, legal words, the sort of language that hovers above men like you instead of landing. You looked back at Celia, waiting for the joke, the explanation, the part where all of this returned to human scale.
It didn’t.
Helena continued. “For the last eleven years, there have been ongoing challenges to succession, control, and custodianship tied to your wife’s late husband’s family, former business partners, and certain criminal interests connected to undeclared offshore holdings.”
You took a step back.
Late husband.
Criminal interests.
Undeclared offshore holdings.
Every sentence was opening a new trapdoor under your feet.
“You told me your husband died fifteen years ago,” you said.
“He did,” Celia replied quietly.
“Then what is this?”
“The rest of the story.”
You were breathing too fast now.
The security presence. The black cars. The guests who looked like politicians and bodyguards. The scars. The fear in her eyes all night. The strange choreography of the evening. It rushed back through your mind and rearranged itself into something darker.
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