Chapter 9 - The Price of Living Like RoyaltyBy the tenth day, Dominic and Amber had stopped posting as frequently.
Their most recent photographs showed them leaving a luxury hotel in Florence, followed by a video of Amber complaining about the inconvenience of changing rooms.
At first, I thought nothing of it.
Then Peter Cole called with an update.
“The preservation order has affected several accounts linked to the disputed proceeds,” he said. “We have also learned that some of the travel expenses were charged to cards connected to Dominic's company.”
“Does that mean the trip is over?”
“Not necessarily. We cannot determine their plans from the financial records alone.”
He hesitated.
“There is something else. The company appears to have made commitments based on the anticipated house proceeds, including deposits on a property investment and the launch of Amber's proposed business.”
“What kind of business?”
“A boutique travel and lifestyle company. It has not yet begun operating.”
Sarah snorted.
“They were going to build a business with Mom's house.”
“That's what the current records suggest,” Peter said.
Margaret joined the call.
“We need to be cautious about assuming every financial decision is fraudulent. The evidence will need to show which funds came from the disputed transaction and who authorized the transfers. But the timing is significant.”
She requested further documents from the bank and the company involved in the property investment.
Later that afternoon, Dominic finally called me again.
His voice sounded different.
Less relaxed.
“Mom, have you been talking to a lawyer?”
I sat at Sarah's kitchen table.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because someone sold my house without my permission.”
He exhaled sharply.
“We've been over this. I had power of attorney.”
“Your document wasn't the one I signed.”
Silence.
Then he laughed, but the sound was brittle.
“Who told you that? Sarah?”
“I have the original document.”
“That's impossible.”
“Is it?”
“Mom, listen to me. You're upset. You're confused. You're letting people fill your head with ideas.”
I had heard those words before.
He had used them to dismiss me when I questioned the nursing-home paperwork. He had used them when I challenged why he needed access to my bank account. He had used them for years whenever I noticed an inconsistency in his explanations.
This time, I would not let him turn the conversation into a debate about my memory.
“I did not authorize the sale,” I said. “The lawyer has the documents. The title company has been contacted. The court has issued an order preserving the property.”
He stopped breathing for a second.
“What order?”
“You should ask your lawyer.”
His voice hardened.
“Mom, what have you done?”
“I have asked someone to protect my rights.”
“You're trying to destroy my life!”
I almost laughed.
The house I had lived in for thirty years was gone. My belongings had been packed into one suitcase. My son had told me I belonged in a nursing home while he crossed Europe with the money from my property.
Yet now he was the victim.
“Dominic,” I said quietly, “you told me Amber deserved the world.”
“She does.”
“And what did you believe I deserved?”
He said nothing.
“You decided I deserved a nursing home. You decided my home was yours. You decided that I was too old to understand what you were doing.”
“That's not what happened.”
“Then explain the voicemail you left me.”
The silence was absolute.
I could hear faint street noise through his phone.
“What voicemail?” he finally asked.
“The one where you explained to Amber that the document you used was different from the original.”
His breath caught.
For the first time in my life, I could picture my son with nothing to say.
“Mom,” he began, “you don't understand the context.”
“Then you'll have plenty of time to explain it to the investigators.”
“Please don't do this.”
The word please was so unfamiliar in his mouth that I almost failed to recognize it.
“Come home,” I said. “Bring your lawyer. We can discuss everything.”
He hesitated.
“Are you at the house?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“At the moment, I'm somewhere you cannot control.”
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
Sarah found me standing by the window.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
She put her arms around me.
“You don't have to be.”
For several minutes, I let myself cry.
I cried for Harold, who had tried to protect me.
I cried for the little boy Dominic had once been.
I cried for the woman I had become, who could no longer pretend that love would fix everything.
Then I wiped my face and sat back down.
Margaret had sent a message.
The property proceedings were moving forward. The court would hear further submissions concerning the trust and the disputed transaction. Temporary restrictions remained in place while the parties prepared their evidence.
I read the message twice.
Then I opened Amber's social media page.
Her latest post showed a row of shopping bags arranged beside a hotel bathtub.
Hard work deserves rewards.
Beneath it, someone had commented, You two must have worked incredibly hard to afford all this.
Amber had replied with a laughing emoji.
I saved the exchange.
Then another email arrived from Peter.
He had found a bank transfer made three days after the house sale. The funds had gone to an account used to pay for a private investment opportunity, which had since been frozen.
The amount was substantial.
More importantly, the transfer instructions contained a message from Dominic to Victor Hale.
Once the house is out of her name, we can proceed. She won't challenge anything until it's too late.
I leaned back in my chair.
It was not a confession of every detail, but it was another piece of the puzzle.
Margaret called within minutes.
“We have enough to seek stronger relief concerning the property,” she said. “The hearing is scheduled sooner than expected.”
“How soon?”
“Three days.”
I looked at Sarah.
She had heard the answer.
Three days.
Dominic and Amber were supposed to remain in Europe for months.
May you like
But suddenly, their luxurious escape had a deadline.
And neither of them knew that I had begun preparing a welcome home they would never forget.
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