Chapter 8 - The Signature That Shouldn't ExistI couldn't breathe.
The digital signature on the authorization looked like mine.
Same handwriting pattern.
Same initials.
Same strange curve in the letter B.
But I was eighteen when my mother died.
I didn't control any companies.
I wasn't even aware they existed.
“This is forged,” I said.
Margaret nodded.
“Obviously.”
“Then why does it match?”
“Because whoever forged it had access to an extraordinary amount of data.”
I looked at Dad.
He was staring at the screen.
“What did the authorization transfer?”
Margaret answered.
“Three subsidiaries.”
“Where?”
“Europe, Singapore and Canada.”
“And who owns them now?”
She hesitated.
“Black Triangle Holdings.”
The room went silent.
Arthur had been moving pieces for twelve years.
My father's wealth.
My mother's investigation.
My own identity.
All of it connected.
But there was something else.
A second signature appeared.
My father's.
“Did you sign this?”
“No.”
“Then someone forged both of us.”
Dad suddenly walked toward the window.
“I should have seen it.”
I had never heard him say that.
“What?”
“The night your mother died, I thought the fraud was about money.”
He turned.
“It wasn't.”
“What was it about?”
“You.”
I stared at him.
“They wanted access to you.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother created a trust.”
I remembered the marriage agreement.
Dad continued.
“Your mother transferred certain intellectual property rights into your name.”
“What intellectual property?”
“The patents behind our most valuable divisions.”
I felt dizzy.
“She put them in my name?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew someone was trying to steal them.”
The pieces came together.
The marriage.
The trust.
The pressure.
George.
Fiona.
Arthur.
They didn't want my money.
They wanted control of assets tied to me.
I looked at Dad.
“How much are they worth?”
Dad paused.
“More than everything George owns.”
I sat down.
The wedding suddenly looked different.
Five hundred guests weren't there to celebrate love.
They had been invited to witness a transaction.
And I had almost signed it.
Then my phone rang.
Fiona.
I answered.
“Blake?”
Her breathing was uneven.
“Where are you?”
“Headquarters.”
“You need to leave.”
“Why?”
“My father found out about the investigation.”
“Where is he?”
“Here.”
I stood.
“What?”
“My father is at the house.”
“Are you safe?”
“I don't know.”
Then I heard a man's voice in the background.
Fiona screamed.
The line went dead.
I looked at Dad.
“George has Fiona.”
Security moved immediately.
We reached the Martinez estate twenty minutes later.
The gates stood open.
Cars were abandoned across the driveway.
The mansion was silent.
Inside, shattered glass covered the floor.
A chair was overturned.
Fiona's phone lay beside the staircase.
And written across the wall in black paint were four words:
WHERE IS THE SON?
Dad stopped.
His face changed.
“Blake.”
I looked at him.
“This isn't about money anymore.”
A gunshot echoed from upstairs.
We ran.
At the end of the hall, a door slammed shut.
I reached it first.
Inside was a small room.
George was standing beside the window.
His suit was covered in blood.
But the blood wasn't his.
“Where is Fiona?”
He smiled.
“Too late.”
Then he held up a photograph.
It showed my father.
My mother.
And a third person.
Someone I had never seen before.
George whispered,
“Ask your father who that woman is.”
Dad stepped into the room.
His face went completely white.
I looked at the photograph.
May you like
The woman standing beside my parents wore the same black triangle symbol around her neck.
And she looked exactly like me.
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