Chapter 2 - The Impostor at the Table
Wes’s fingers wrapped around my wrist like a steel cuff. His grip only lasted three or four seconds before he let go, realizing that Harrison and the other investors were staring openly at his hand on my arm. But those few seconds were enough to seal his fate. Every person at that table had witnessed my autonomy being physically overridden by the man who claimed we were a "stable, family-oriented unit."
"Sit down, Audrey," Wes muttered, his smile strained to its absolute breaking point.
"Don't touch me," I whispered, my voice shaking with adrenaline.
Before Wes could fabricate another smooth excuse, the private dining room door swung open. A woman in a sharp charcoal-gray blazer strode in, carrying a thick leather portfolio under her arm. One of the Cedar Ridge partners stood up immediately, greeting her as Simone Grant, explaining that she had been called in as a senior compliance officer because another executive’s flight had been grounded by the storm.
Simone’s eyes swept around the table, landing first on Wes’s flushed face and then directly on me. She noticed my rigid posture, the slight red mark on my wrist where Wes had gripped me, and the tense, suffocating atmosphere hanging over the room.
"Is everything all right here?" Simone asked, her tone crisp and professional, brooking no nonsense.
Wes sprang up from his chair, smoothly extending a hand. "Of course, Simone! Welcome. We were just concluding our presentation on the Maple Street asset. Allow me to introduce my wife, Audrey."
Simone didn't take his hand. She kept her gaze locked onto mine, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she processed my name.
"Did you say your name is Audrey Bell?" Simone asked slowly.
"Yes," I replied, my voice steady. "I am Audrey Bell."
Simone’s expression turned from professional curiosity into something resembling cold stone. She slowly turned her head to look at Wes, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"That's fascinating, Mr. Bell," Simone said, her voice carrying clearly across the silent room. "Because I met Mrs. Bell in your corporate office just three days ago."
Every conversation at the table died instantly. The ambient hum of the restaurant music seemed to vanish into a vacuum. Wes’s hand hovered in mid-air for a second before he slowly dropped it to his side, his color draining until he looked like skim milk.
"You... you must be mistaken," Wes stammered, forcing a brittle, nervous laugh. "Audrey was at her middle school all day Tuesday. She hasn't been to my office in months."
"I am rarely mistaken about people I sign compliance documents with," Simone retorted sharply. She unzipped her leather portfolio, pulled out a stack of papers, and laid them flat on the mahogany table. "Three days ago, a woman with short brown hair, tortoise-shell glasses, and a tan trench coat walked into Bell Table Catering. You introduced her to me yourself, Mr. Bell. You introduced her as your wife, Audrey Bell."
My breath caught in my throat. The room spun slightly.
Short hair. Glasses. A tan trench coat.
That description didn't match me in any universe. I had long, curly dark blonde hair that I usually wore half-up, I didn't wear glasses for daily work, and my favorite coat was a navy wool pea coat.
"Show me," I demanded, stepping forward and placing both hands on the edge of the table. "Show me what she signed."
Simone looked at me with deep, professional sympathy. She flipped open the portfolio and turned a document around so it faced me.
At the bottom of a commercial lease-transfer agreement, granting Bell Table Catering immediate occupancy of the Maple Street bakery building, was a signature written in flowing, practiced cursive.
May you like
Audrey Bell.
It looked remarkably like my signature at a glance—the sweeping loops of the 'A', the sharp cross of the 'B'. But as I stared closer, the cold horror settled deep into my marrow. It wasn't my handwriting. It was a forgery, executed by someone who had clearly practiced copying my name over and over again until they got it right.
