Chapter 3 - SAVANNAH WASN’T JUST HIS MISTRESSI did not go home after discharge.

Dad booked two rooms at a hotel near Reston.

I refused to stay with him.

Not because I feared him.

Because I needed one door in the world I could lock without somebody calling it dramatic.

My friend Lauren brought clothes.

My attorney came the next morning.

Rachel Morgan.

Forty-six.

Family law.

No nonsense.

She asked exactly what happened.

I told her.

Kennel.

Shove.

Savannah.

Robe.

Hospital.

Bank papers.

Everything.

Rachel divided the problems immediately.

Marriage.

Safety.

Property.

Business.

Pregnancy.

Different lanes.

That helped.

She arranged for me to retrieve belongings with appropriate precautions later.

She told me not to contact Travis directly.

Then she said:

“Who is Savannah Pierce?”

“My husband’s girlfriend.”

“Anything else?”

I almost said no.

Then remembered something.

“She worked for his company.”

“When?”

“Still does, I think.”

Job title:

Director of Client Experience.

Whatever that meant.

Savannah appeared eighteen months earlier after Travis attended a luxury-home conference in Scottsdale.

Platinum bob.

Good taste.

Sharp eye for wealthy clients.

I disliked how familiar she was with Travis.

He told me I was insecure.

Then Savannah started texting him at night.

He said client emergencies.

Then weekend lunches.

Site visits.

Vendor trips.

I asked.

He denied.

Eventually he stopped denying and started insulting the question.

“You’re pregnant and sitting home imagining things.”

That line worked because I had stopped going to job sites months earlier.

I used to manage procurement for Callahan Custom Homes.

Not officially as an employee.

That was another problem.

When Travis started the business, I helped nights and weekends.

Vendor lists.

Client billing.

Scheduling.

Then the company grew.

I returned to my own work in nonprofit fundraising.

Travis hired people.

I stepped back.

Savannah entered after me.

Rachel asked:

“Do you own any part of Callahan?”

“No.”

“Did you ever?”

“No.”

“Contribute capital?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

I closed my eyes.

“About ninety thousand.”

My own savings.

Five years earlier.

Documented as a loan.

At least I thought it was.

Rachel asked for the promissory note.

I had one.

Good.

Then:

“Any repayments?”

“Thirty thousand over the first two years. Nothing recently.”

That left roughly sixty thousand.

Then Dad called.

The bank package had been forwarded to outside counsel.

The signature on my personal guaranty had been electronic.

Not handwritten.

The authorization certificate used an email address.

Mine.

An old one.

[email protected]

I hadn’t used it in two years.

Travis controlled the company domain.

I felt sick.

The electronic consent appeared to originate from an office IP address.

Not proof Travis did it.

But enough to dispute immediately.

Through counsel, I notified the bank:

I did not authorize the guaranty.

I did not authorize pledging my Mercer LLC interest.

I disputed any use of that email as current consent.

The bank froze the new facility pending review.

Not Travis’s existing company.

Not every account.

The new financing.

Then Rachel asked something I had not considered.

“Who prepared the application?”

The bank package listed:

Savannah Pierce — Authorized Finance Liaison.

I read it twice.

“She handles finance?”

“I didn’t know.”

Apparently she did.

Savannah was not merely sleeping with my husband.

She had been assembling documents affecting my separate property.

Then the bank produced an email chain.

Savannah to Travis:

Need Brooke authorization before Friday.

Travis:

Use the old company email. She won’t touch it.

Savannah:

That is not the same as authorization.

For one irrational second, I felt relief.

Maybe Savannah had objected.

Then the next message.

Travis:

She signed the family-consent packet last year. We’re covered.

Savannah:

Send me the signature page.

There was no family-consent packet that gave him permission to pledge my property.

But I had signed many documents the previous year.

Insurance.

Estate planning.

Emergency powers relating to pregnancy.

A company vendor release after one of Travis’s subcontractor disputes.

Somebody had used something.

Then Rachel said:

“Brooke, Savannah may have participated in the application without knowing the underlying authority was false.”

I hated that.

I wanted a clean mistress villain.

Woman in my robe.

Champagne.

Cruel line.

Easy.

Instead, the documents suggested she may have known less than Travis.

Then Dad called again.

“Brooke.”

“What?”

“We found where Savannah came from.”

“What do you mean?”

Before Callahan Custom Homes, Savannah had worked for First National Piedmont.

Commercial lending.

For five years.

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She knew exactly how guaranties worked.

And she had left the bank under circumstances Travis never told me about.