“Mr. Holloway, we need to discuss the signatures authorizing these transfers.”
Grant stared at me.
I smiled for the first time that evening.
“Mine were forged.”
Reporters began speaking over one another.
Delaney backed away.
“I did not know those funds came from Bellamy.”
Grant reached for her.
She pulled her arm away.
Then another man entered the ballroom carrying the original ownership documents to the Palm Beach mansion.
Grant’s expression collapsed when he recognized him.
My father.
The man I had told him died before our wedding.
Julian Bellamy was sixty-seven.
His hair had turned almost entirely silver, and he walked with a slight limp he had not possessed before the plane crash.
But he was alive.
