Chapter 9—Christa
THE FIRST THING I SEE Thursday morning is Simon’s jacket draped over the back of a chair in my hotel suite.
For a few seconds, I lie under the unfamiliar white duvet and stare through the open bedroom door at the sitting room. His jacket is where he left it last night after we came back from my studio. One shoe is visible beside the sofa.
He stayed.
I remember asking him to. I also remember crying until my head hurt, eating half a grilled cheese sandwich because Simon ordered room service and informed me that crackers didn’t qualify as dinner, and arguing for ten minutes about whether he could fit on the sofa.
He claimed he’d slept in worse places. I accused him of billionaire cosplay, and he told me his childhood summer camp had cots. That argument somehow ended with me laughing.
My phone says 6:48. There are twelve muted messages from Tate and nine from Charla. I leave them unopened.
The bedroom has its own bathroom, so I shower, dress, and do enough with concealer to keep anyone from asking whether I’ve contracted a communicable disease. When I come out, Simon is sitting at the small dining table in yesterday’s clothes with a cup of hotel coffee and his laptop open.
He looks up as I enter. “Good morning.”
“You look terrible.”
His hair is rumpled, his shirt is creased, and there’s a red mark along one cheek from whatever decorative torture device the hotel calls a sofa cushion. Simon touches it with two fingers and gives me an aggrieved look. “I was going to say you look better.”
“That’s why people like you more.”
“I’ve cultivated charm to compensate for my many flaws.” He grins.
I walk to the coffee service he apparently ordered while I was in the shower. “You slept on a sofa that’s six inches shorter than you are.”
“Seven.”
“That was your choice.”
His mouth shifts toward a grin as he closes the laptop and we exchange mindless banter. The ordinary conversation lasts long enough for me to put cream in my coffee. Then my phone vibrates against the counter with a call from Jai.
Simon sees the name and closes his laptop all the way without asking whether he should leave.
I answer. “Please have ruined somebody’s morning.”
“I’m working on it.” Jai sounds far too awake for seven. “Are you somewhere you can talk?”
“Hotel suite. Simon’s here.”
He lifts his coffee in acknowledgment even though she can’t see him.
She doesn’t comment about his presence. “Fine. I have two things for you. The first is the car inquiry. The second is the thirty days.”
I freeze with my coffee halfway to my mouth. “Which one is worse?”
She hesitates for a second. “The car is easier.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I know.” Papers move on her end. “I spoke with counsel for the lender last night after you signed the authorization I sent. They won’t release the application to me yet, but they confirmed an application exists under your name and Social Security number.”
The coffee tastes suddenly too bitter. I set it down. “Was it approved?”
“Yes.”
Simon pushes his chair away from the table, all humor gone.
Jai continues. “The financed amount was two hundred eighty-six thousand dollars.”
I stare at the patterned hotel carpet. “For a car?”
“I’ve been reliably informed there are cars that cost more.”
Simon raises one finger.
I point at him. “You don’t get to contribute to this part of the conversation.”
He lowers it immediately.
Jai makes a brief choking noise that might be a laugh before returning to business. “The application listed your name, date of birth, Social Security number, and a copy of a driver’s license. It also used an email address and phone number that aren’t yours.”
“Whose?”
“They won’t tell me yet. Their fraud department will speak directly with you this morning and verify the information.”
I grip the edge of the counter. “Was the car delivered?”
“Yes.”
The answer is so absurd that I look at Simon as if he might explain how my identical twin apparently bought a quarter-million-dollar car with my identity and I failed to notice.
He can’t, obviously. He looks stunned too.
“The account hasn’t reported as a tradeline yet,” Jai says. “That’s why you only saw the inquiry. First payment is due next week.”
I abandon the coffee and move toward the table. “Where was it delivered?”
She taps her keyboard. “I don’t have that yet.”
It hits me suddenly. “I know where it is.”
Simon straightens.
I close my eyes for a second and see Charla’s social media post from a few weeks ago. She posed beside a silver sports car and captioned it Finally found one worth keeping. I assumed she’d borrowed it, rented it, or convinced Dad to change his mind.
“I’ve seen the car.”
Jai’s voice sharpens. “Where?”
“Charla posted pictures with one. Silver. Ridiculous doors.” I grab my laptop from the side table. “I thought Dad gave in.”
“Can you still see the post?”
“I’ll check.” I search and scroll. The photograph is still there.
Charla leans against a silver McLaren in oversized sunglasses, one ankle crossed over the other. The driver’s-side door is raised above her. Three thousand people apparently thought this deserved a heart.
The date is five weeks ago. I turn the laptop toward Simon.
He leans closer, studies the picture, then sits back. “That would qualify as ridiculous doors.”
I scowl at him. “Don’t sound impressed.”
“I’m impressed by the car. I’m appalled by the acquisition method.”
I save screenshots while Jai asks for the caption. After I read it aloud, she instructs me to send the post and leave everything else alone until the lender preserves its records.
“Can they take the car?” I ask.
“If the financing was obtained through identity theft, the lender has options. None of them are likely to improve Charla’s day.” Jai chuckles.
That earns my first real smile of the morning. “Excellent.”
Jai laughs again. “You sounded pleased.”
Why bother denying it? “I’m allowed to enjoy lawful consequences.”
From across the table, Simon murmurs, “I believe that’s practically your firm’s new slogan.”
Jai ignores him. “There’s another reason I want you to stay out of it. If Charla knowingly submitted your identification and Social Security number to obtain financing, this is much larger than sibling boundary trouble. I want every record preserved before she realizes anyone is looking.”
I glance at Charla’s photograph again. “She really did it.”
“Someone used your identity. The rest comes from the application and supporting records.” Jai is careful even when the answer is sitting on my screen wearing six-inch heels.
That’s why I pay her. I need to take her advice, so I close the social media tab. “You said there were two things.”
Papers rustle before she answers. Simon carries his coffee to the window and leaves the center of the room open around me.
“I reviewed the trust disclosures attached to Tate’s prenuptial financial schedule,” Jai says. “You gave me those when you hired me. I ignored most of the family-trust detail because you told me repeatedly that you had no interest in Tate’s inherited assets.”
“I remember.” Regret fills me again.
“I should have enough now to explain the thirty days.”
I sit.
“The trust has a succession provision tied to what it calls a qualifying male descendant. I don’t have the full trust instrument yet, so I’m working from the disclosure summary and two referenced amendments.” Faint disgust paints her voice.
“How bad is it?”
“It explains why Tate is panicking.”
My stomach twists as Jai lays it out without embellishment.
Tate is the male heir of his generation, but his right to assume voting control is triggered only when he has a qualifying male heir of his own.
Once a pregnancy carrying his son is certified under the trust rules, Tate gains provisional control.
Final vesting still depends on the child’s live birth, but the voting arrangement shifts as soon as the certification is accepted.
I stare at the untouched breakfast tray on the table. “What does certified mean?”
“Medical documentation of an ongoing pregnancy, documentation that the fetus is male, and completion of fourteen weeks’ gestation.”
Fourteen weeks. Charla is eleven.
I look toward Simon at the window. He has already done the math.
“Three weeks.” He frowns. “Why fourteen weeks?”
“Second trimester. The risk of miscarriage drops considerably,” says Jai. “The trust hedges its bets without delaying the transfer of power for additional months.”
“Efficient.” I scowl. “In three weeks, he gets everything he wants.”
“Approximately,” Jai says. “Your petition was filed Monday. Tate asked you for thirty days that afternoon. Thirty days gets Charla beyond fourteen weeks with enough room to submit documentation and deal with trustee processing.”
I get up again and cross to the windows. The city below us is already moving, cars stopping at lights and people walking into buildings as if this Thursday is ordinary. “He sat there Monday and told me the baby issue didn’t matter anymore.”
I can hear Tate’s voice as clearly as if he’s in the suite.
Thirty days, Christa.
Counseling.
A chance to reset.
I scoff. He wanted time to manipulate everything for his plan. “What does the trust say about the mother?”
“This is where I need the full instrument.” Jai flips another page. “The summary defines a qualifying male descendant as issue of Tate’s lawful marital line. That phrase is referenced to another section I don’t have.”
“Lawful marital line.”
“Yes.”
I turn toward Simon. “That’s why Charla was pretending to be me.”
“It’s a strong possibility,” Jai says. “I still won’t state it as fact until I see the controlling language.”
Simon returns to the table and rests one hand on the back of a chair. “His family and the trust have to believe you’re pregnant until the transfer.”