Chapter 2 - The Paperwork That Erased Me
The dining room of the Grand Bellmont Hotel suddenly felt freezing.
I stared at Vincent Moretti, my fingers numb against Walter’s red leather leash. “What do you mean, he used the papers?”
Vincent didn't look at me. His dark, intelligent eyes were locked on Evan, who was standing a few feet away with a hotel security guard.
“Rachel,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register that was quiet, calm, and terrifyingly analytical. “The forms you signed for your wedding planner. Did you read the headers? Did you see the notary stamps?”
“Evan said they were insurance riders for the reception,” I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “He said the venue required a designated responsible party for liability.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. A muscle ticked beneath the dark ink on his neck. “It wasn't an insurance rider. It was a medical and legal proxy. A durable power of attorney.”
My breath caught in my throat.
My mother, standing beside me in her green dress, gripped my arm. “Rachel? What is he talking about?”
“He’s talking about a conservatorship,” Vincent answered, his gaze never leaving Evan’s face. “Your fiancé didn't just book a moving van for you, Mrs. Bennett. He booked a specialized medical transport for your daughter. Tomorrow morning, they aren't coming to help her pack. They are coming to involuntarily commit her to a psychiatric facility.”
The room spun.
I looked at Evan. The man I had shared a home with, the man who had kissed my forehead every morning and told me I was the strongest woman he knew. His handsome face was a mask of polite concern, but his eyes—those pale blue eyes I had trusted—were cold and entirely dead.
“He can't do that,” I whispered, panic rising like bile in my throat. “I’m a veterinary technician. I have a job. I pay my taxes. I’m completely sane!”
“Sanity is subjective when the person holding your legal proxy has spent six months building a documented history of your grief-induced instability,” Vincent said smoothly.
He turned to look at me, his massive frame shielding me from Evan’s view.
“Think about it, Rachel,” Vincent murmured. “Has he scheduled doctor’s appointments for you? Has he mentioned to your friends that you aren't sleeping? Has he isolated you from your mother by telling her you can't handle the stress?”
Tears spilled hot and fast down my cheeks.
Yes.
Evan had done all of it. He had manufactured a breakdown, brick by brick, using my father’s death as the foundation. And I had handed him the keys to my life by signing a stack of papers while making him coffee.
“He’s going to lock me away,” I choked out, dropping to my knees beside Walter. The old golden retriever whined, pressing his heavy head against my shoulder. “He’s going to lock me away, sell my mother’s house, and leave her in a state ward.”
“No,” my mother sobbed, dropping down beside me. She wrapped her frail arms around my neck. “I won't let him. I’ll tell them the truth! I’ll tell them he lied!”
“They won't listen to a seventy-four-year-old widow, Mom,” I wept, holding her tight. “He’s already told everyone you're confused. He told me you were losing your memory. He told you I was losing my mind.”
“Excuse me.”
Evan’s voice cut through the air. He stepped forward, the hotel security guard flanking him.
“Mr. Moretti,” Evan said, his tone dripping with practiced patience. “I’m afraid you’re indulging a very sick woman’s paranoia. Rachel is suffering from severe delusions. I have the legal documentation right here.”
Evan reached into his tailored charcoal jacket and pulled out a folded sheaf of papers.
Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the papers. He looked at Antonio, his security chief.
“Antonio,” Vincent said quietly.
“Boss?”
“If that man takes one more step toward this table, break his jaw.”
Evan froze. The hotel security guard hesitated, his hand hovering over his radio. Vincent’s men were massive, wearing tailored suits that barely concealed the lethal weapons harnessed beneath their jackets.
“You can't threaten me,” Evan stammered, his polished facade finally cracking. “I have the legal right to take her home. She is a danger to herself!”
“She’s sitting on the floor petting a golden retriever,” Vincent pointed out dryly. “The only danger in this room is standing in front of me wearing a cheap suit.”
Evan’s face flushed dark red. “I am trying to get my fiancée medical help! She isn't taking her medication!”
I stopped crying. I looked up. “What medication?”
Evan reached into his pocket and produced a small, amber prescription bottle. He held it up for the security guard to see.
“She’s been hiding these in her purse instead of taking them,” Evan said sadly. “Anti-psychotics. Her doctor prescribed them three weeks ago. I found them in her bag tonight.”
My stomach plummeted into an endless abyss.
I had never seen that bottle in my life. He had planted it in my purse before we left for the hotel. He hadn't just built a paper trail; he had planted physical evidence to prove to the authorities that I was a threat.
The hotel security guard looked at me with deep pity. “Ma'am, I think you need to come with us quietly.”
I scrambled backward on the carpet, pulling my mother and Walter with me. “No! It’s a lie! He planted those!”
Evan sighed, a heartbreaking sound of a devoted man pushed to his limit. “See how paranoid she is? Please, officers. Help me get her to the car.”
The guard stepped forward, reaching for my arm.
But before his fingers could touch me, a massive, tattooed hand clamped around the guard’s wrist with the force of a steel vice.
Vincent Moretti stood between me and the guard.
“She isn't going anywhere,” Vincent said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble.
“Sir, you are interfering with a medical emergency,” Evan warned.
Vincent didn't look at Evan. He reached out and snatched the amber pill bottle from Evan’s hand.
He held it up to the light of the chandelier, reading the label.
For a second, Vincent’s eyes narrowed. Then, a dark, lethal smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“You’re right, Mercer,” Vincent said softly. “These are heavy anti-psychotics. Prescribed to Rachel Bennett. Filled three weeks ago.”
Evan smirked. “Exactly. Now give them back.”
“But there’s a problem,” Vincent continued, ignoring him. He twisted the child-proof cap and poured the contents into his large palm.
Dozens of small, chalky white pills tumbled out.
Vincent held one up.
“My family owns the pharmaceutical distribution company that supplies this specific brand to the Midwest,” Vincent said, his eyes locking onto Evan’s terrified face. “I know what these pills look like.”
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He tossed the pill at Evan’s chest.
“These aren't anti-psychotics, you stupid son of a bitch. These are canine joint supplements. You put the dog's pills in a fake bottle to frame her.”
