Chapter 5 Frozen

• Dominic
• The first transfer doesn’t go through.
• That happens sometimes. Delays. Flags. Compliance bullshit. I simply refresh the screen, re-enter the authorization, wait for the confirmation that always comes.
• It doesn’t.
• I try a second account. Same result.
• By the third, my patience is gone.
• “Run it again,” I tell my lawyer. “You’re missing something.”
• “I’m not,” he says carefully.
• That tone irritates me. Lawyers get careful when they’re about to tell you something you won’t like.
• I stand and move to the window, phone pressed to my ear, eyes scanning the street below even though there’s nothing there I need to see.
• “What’s the problem?” I ask.
• “There’s a hold on several of the accounts,” he says. “Not temporary. Structural.”
• “That doesn’t make sense.”
• “It does if ownership parameters were altered.”
• I turn back toward my desk. “By who?”
• There’s a pause.
• “Dominic,” he says, “when was the last time you reviewed the internal structure of your holdings?”
• “I don’t review them,” I snap. “That’s why I pay you.”
• “And your wife,” he adds.
• The word lands heavier than it should.
• “What about her?”
• “She’s listed as an authorized signer on more than half of them.”
• I grip the edge of the desk. “That was procedural. She handled household matters.”
• “Yes,” he says. “And corporate ones.”
• “No,” I say. “She handled logistics. Scheduling. Some compliance.”
• “Dominic,” he says again, slower now. “She wasn’t just signing paperwork. She was restructuring.”
• That’s not possible.
• Marisol didn’t touch the core. She didn’t make decisions without running them by me. She didn’t—
• “When?” I ask.
• “Over time,” he replies. “Gradually. It’s… clean. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”
• “Reverse it.”
• “I can’t.”
• “Try.”
• “I have,” he says. “Your access isn’t being recognized.”
• I feel something tighten in my chest. Something close to disbelief.
• “Then whose is?”
• Another pause.
• “Your wife’s.”
• I close my eyes for a second.
• “That’s not—” I stop. Recalibrate. “What does that mean?”
• “It means control was shifted,” he says. “Legally.”
• “You’re telling me she owns my companies,” I say.
• “I’m telling you she controls the operational flow of several of them,” he corrects. “And until she authorizes changes, they’re locked.”
• “How much?” I ask.
• He exhales. “Enough that it’s a problem.”
• That’s not an answer.
• “Which accounts?” I press.
• “The logistics holding account,” he says first. “Two of the offshore buffers. A few domestic shells. They’re all… inaccessible.”
• I feel the room shift slightly, like something in my balance is off.
• “She wouldn’t do this,” I say.
• “She already has.”
• I hang up without another word.
• The house is quiet. Too quiet. I move through it without thinking, past rooms that suddenly feel unfamiliar. When I reach the study, I stop.
• The shelves are bare.
• Books missing. Files gone. Drawers that used to be full now neat and hollow.
• She didn’t grab things at random.
• She took exactly what she needed.
• My phone buzzes. Another message from my lawyer.
• We’re still trying. I’ll update you.
• I don’t respond.
• Instead, I sit in the chair behind the desk and stare at the surface Marisol used every day. The spot where she lined things up. The way she kept it clear, organized, boring.
• I never paid attention.
• That was my mistake.
• The realization that I may have underestimated the one person who never needed to raise her voice to get what she wanted.
• And I don’t know how far she’s willing to take this yet.
• But I’m about to find out.