PART 3 — THE ACCOUNT WITH MY NAME ON IT
“How much money?”
My voice barely came out.
Lauren was silent for two seconds.
Then she said:
“Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars.”
I sat completely still.
I actually looked around the bedroom like someone else might have heard her and could explain what she had just said.
“Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand?”
“That’s what we’ve identified so far.”
So far.
Those two words frightened me more than the number.
I pulled the blanket away and swung my swollen legs over the side of the bed.
“Lauren, I don’t understand. Adrian and I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
Another pause.
“Because some of the transfers appear connected to client payments.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“Our compliance department noticed irregularities after I submitted the messages you sent me. The affair itself triggered an internal review because several of their trips had been billed to company accounts.”
I pressed my palm against my forehead.
“And then?”
“We found reimbursement requests Adrian submitted under projects that didn’t exist.”
I closed my eyes.
“Lauren…”
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
There was always more now.
Six months ago, I thought my biggest problem was whether we had enough closet space for a crib.
Yesterday morning, I thought my biggest problem was my husband cheating.
Now I was sitting on the edge of my bed wondering whether the father of my unborn daughter had committed financial fraud using my identity.
“What does my name have to do with it?”
Lauren lowered her voice.
“Several payments were routed through a consulting company.”
“What consulting company?”
“CML Consulting Group.”
I frowned.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“We checked the registration.”
My heartbeat sped up.
“It’s registered to you.”
I stopped breathing.
“No.”
“Camila—”
“No. I have never owned a consulting company.”
“That’s why I called.”
I stood too quickly and immediately had to grab the dresser because the room tilted.
Lucy kicked.
Hard.
“Are you okay?” Lauren asked.
“I’m seven months pregnant and apparently I own a secret company laundering my husband’s money. Define okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Send me everything.”
“I can’t send company records directly until legal approves it.”
“Then tell me what you can.”
She sighed.
“The company was incorporated eight months ago.”
Eight months.
I started counting backward.
Eight months ago, Adrian and I had been trying for a baby.
Eight months ago, he brought me flowers every Friday.
Eight months ago, he surprised me with dinner reservations because he said we needed “more romance before parenthood made us boring.”
Eight months ago, he had apparently created a company in my name.
“What address is listed?”
Lauren read it.
I knew the address.
My blood turned cold.
It was my mother-in-law’s old apartment.
The one Teresa had rented out after moving into her condo.
“Lauren.”
“Yes?”
“That property belongs to Adrian’s mother.”
Silence.
“That’s useful information.”
Useful.
I almost laughed.
My entire marriage was turning into evidence.
“Do you think Teresa knows?”
“I can’t speculate.”
But I could.
And suddenly the apology Teresa whispered at the baby shower felt different.
I’m sorry.
Had she meant she was sorry about Rachel?
Or something else?
I ended the call and immediately dialed Mariana.
She answered on the second ring.
“If the baby is coming, I’m not emotionally prepared because I’m still hungover from revenge cupcakes.”
“Adrian opened a company in my name.”
She went silent.
“Say that again.”
I explained everything.
The transfers.
The amount.
The address.
The fake consulting company.
When I finished, Mariana’s tone changed completely.
The sarcastic cousin disappeared.
The attorney arrived.
“Do not call Adrian.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Do not call Teresa.”
That one hurt.
“Why?”
“Because if she’s involved, we don’t want to warn her.”
I stared at the wall.
“Mariana, she hugged me yesterday.”
“I know.”
“She cried.”
“I know.”
“She told Adrian to sleep on her couch.”
“I know.”
I swallowed.
“What if she knew?”
“Then we find out.”
Twenty minutes later, Mariana was at my mother’s house with two coffees, a laptop, and the expression of a woman who smelled blood in the water.
My mother hovered near us.
“What company?”
“Mom, please.”
“No, don’t ‘Mom, please’ me. I watched that man marry you. I paid for half that wedding. If he stole your identity, I want addresses.”
Mariana looked impressed.
“I’ve always liked your mother.”
My mom pointed toward the kitchen.
“There are knives.”
“Mom!”
“For vegetables, Camila. Relax.”
Mariana opened her laptop.
“First, credit report.”
I frowned.
“I check my credit.”
“When?”
“Maybe six months ago?”
She gave me a look.
“Today.”
We logged in.
And there it was.
A business credit inquiry from five months earlier.
Then another.
Then a line of credit.
$95,000.
My name.
My Social Security number.
My address.
My stomach turned.
“I didn’t open that.”
“I know.”
Another account appeared.
Business credit card.
Limit: $40,000.
Balance: $31,782.
I felt sick.
My mother sat down beside me.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I didn’t spend this money.”
Mariana started taking screenshots.
“Keep saying that.”
“What?”
“That you didn’t authorize anything. Every account we discover, say it out loud. Do not let your brain start rationalizing what Adrian might have done.”
She clicked again.
Then froze.
“What?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mariana.”
“There’s a second authorized user.”
“Who?”
She turned the laptop toward me.
TERESA VEGA.
My mother whispered:
“No.”
I stared at my mother-in-law’s name.
Authorized user.
There was no misunderstanding.
No coincidence.
No clever explanation.
Teresa was connected.
My hands began shaking.
Yesterday, she had cried.
Yesterday, she had looked horrified when I exposed Adrian.
Yesterday, she had called him disgraceful.
And apparently, months earlier, she had been added to a business account opened fraudulently in my name.
My phone rang.
TERESA.
All three of us stared at it.
“Don’t answer,” Mariana said.
I let it ring.
It stopped.
Then came a text.
CAMILA, WE NEED TO TALK BEFORE ADRIAN TELLS YOU SOMETHING THAT ISN’T TRUE.
My heartbeat hammered.
Another message.
PLEASE. THERE ARE THINGS ABOUT THE MONEY YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.
I looked at Mariana.
“She knows.”
Mariana’s face hardened.
“Screenshot that.”
My mother leaned over my shoulder.
“What money?”
Another message arrived.
I WAS TRYING TO PROTECT YOUR FAMILY.
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
Protect my family.
Apparently fraud had become an act of love.
Then Teresa called again.
Mariana held out her hand.
“Put it on speaker.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Camila.”
Teresa sounded breathless.
“Where are you?”
“Why?”
“I need to see you.”
“What money, Teresa?”
Silence.
“Camila—”
“What money?”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m pregnant, cheated on, and apparently the owner of a company I’ve never heard of. Yes, Teresa. I’m upset.”
My mother covered her mouth.
Mariana was typing notes.
Teresa lowered her voice.
“Adrian made mistakes.”
“That sentence is becoming very popular.”
“But he did not steal from you.”
“Then why is your name attached to a credit card opened under mine?”
Nothing.
I looked at Mariana.
Her eyebrows lifted.
Got her.
Finally Teresa said:
“He told me you knew.”
I felt something inside me break.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Like glass cracking under pressure.
“Knew what?”
“The company.”
“I didn’t.”
“I swear to you, Camila, he told me it was part of your financial planning.”
“My financial planning?”
“He said you were building business credit because you wanted to buy investment property after the baby.”
I almost admired the lie.
It was detailed.
Specific.
Believable.
Adrian knew exactly how to make fiction sound like something I would do.
“Then why were you an authorized user?”
Teresa hesitated.
“He asked me to help with purchases.”
“What purchases?”
“Furniture. Electronics. Office equipment.”
“For what office?”
No answer.
“Teresa.”
“I don’t know.”
“You spent money from an account in my name and you don’t know where it went?”
“I trusted my son.”
There it was.
The family disease.
Trust Adrian.
Believe Adrian.
Protect Adrian.
Until everyone else paid the bill.
“How much did you spend?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“Try.”
“Maybe fifteen thousand.”
Mariana scribbled something.
“On what?”
“A laptop. Two phones. Some furniture.”
“And where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
I closed my eyes.
“Teresa, how do you spend fifteen thousand dollars on things and not know where they are?”
Her voice cracked.
“Because Adrian picked everything up.”
Of course.
I suddenly remembered something.
Three months ago, Adrian had brought home a new laptop.
He told me his company replaced his old one.
A week later, he had a new phone.
Then he told me Rachel had helped him “upgrade the office equipment.”
Rachel.
I opened my eyes.
“Was Rachel ever with him when he used the card?”
Teresa went quiet.
That silence answered me.
“Was she?”
“Yes.”
My entire body went cold.
“What did they buy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Teresa!”
“A television.”
“What?”
“A large television.”
“For where?”
“I thought his office.”
I turned to Mariana.
She shook her head slowly.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“A sofa.”
A television.
A sofa.
Phones.
Laptop.
Furniture.
I thought of the Hamptons.
The mysterious work trips.
The late nights.
Then I remembered one message I had skimmed past because I had been too focused on the affair.
Rachel had written:
I love our little place.
At the time, I assumed she meant a restaurant.
A hotel.
Some secret corner of Manhattan.
Our little place.
My throat tightened.
“Teresa, does Adrian rent an apartment?”
Silence.
“Answer me.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You hesitated.”
“I don’t know everything he does.”
I hung up.
My mother stared at me.
“What are you thinking?”
I pulled out my phone.
I still had every screenshot.
I searched the messages.
There.
Rachel:
I wish you were here tonight.
Adrian:
Soon, queen.
Rachel:
The neighbors are loud again.
Adrian:
I’ll deal with it this weekend.
Rachel:
Bring groceries. There’s nothing here.
My heart pounded.
I hadn’t noticed those messages before.
Not really.
When you first discover an affair, every sentence feels like a knife.
You don’t stop to analyze the shape of the blade.
Now I did.
“They have an apartment.”
Mariana leaned forward.
“What?”
“He has another home.”
I scrolled faster.
Then I found a photo Rachel had sent.
She was standing in front of a mirror wearing a red dress.
Behind her was a living room.
Gray sofa.
Large television.
Glass coffee table.
I zoomed in.
On the coffee table was a little decorative bowl.
Bright blue.
Ceramic.
I knew that bowl.
Because Teresa had bought two identical ones in Portugal.
One sat in her condo.
The other had disappeared from her old apartment.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
I showed Mariana.
“That bowl came from Teresa’s place.”
Mariana took the phone.
“So maybe the apartment is—”
“The old apartment.”
The address registered to my fake company.
We all stared at each other.
Adrian wasn’t just using Teresa’s address for paperwork.
He and Rachel were living there.
In a property connected to the company opened under my identity.
My mother stood.
“Give me my keys.”
“No.”
“We’re going.”
“Mom.”
“You think I’m sitting here?”
Mariana shut the laptop.
“Actually, nobody is going anywhere yet.”
My mother glared at her.
“Why?”
“Because if that apartment contains evidence, we don’t touch it.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Fraud, potentially.”
The word hung in the room.
Fraud.
Not adultery.
Not betrayal.
Fraud.
Mariana called someone from her firm.
Then another person.
Within an hour, I had spoken with an identity theft specialist, frozen my credit, flagged the accounts, and started documenting every financial record connected to the fake company.
Then my phone buzzed.
ADRIAN.
I didn’t answer.
Another call.
Then another.
Finally, a message:
DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT MY MOTHER TELLS YOU. SHE’S THE ONE WHO SET EVERYTHING UP.
I stared at it.
Then another:
CAMILA, CALL ME BEFORE SHE DESTROYS BOTH OF US.
I showed Mariana.
“Well,” she said, “the rats have started eating each other.”
My phone rang again.
This time I answered.
“What?”
“Camila, thank God.”
Adrian sounded frantic.
“What did my mother tell you?”
“That she used a credit card in my name because you told her I approved it.”
“She’s lying.”
“She admitted using it.”
“She knew what the company was for.”
“And what was it for, Adrian?”
Silence.
“What was CML Consulting for?”
“It was supposed to be temporary.”
“For what?”
“I was moving money.”
I gripped the phone.
“Whose money?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“I had debts.”
“What debts?”
“Investments.”
“What investments?”
“Crypto. Sports. Other things.”
Sports.
I closed my eyes.
“Gambling?”
“No.”
“That pause sounded expensive.”
“I made bad decisions.”
“How much?”
He didn’t answer.
“How much, Adrian?”
“Before I started moving things around?”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
“About one hundred and eighty.”
“Thousand?”
“Yes.”
My mother sat down hard.
He had lost $180,000.
Money I had never even known existed.
“How?”
“I thought I could recover it.”
“So you opened a company in my name?”
“My credit was destroyed.”
Mine wasn’t.
That was what he meant.
He had used me because I was still financially useful.
“You stole my identity.”
“I was going to pay everything back.”
“You used my Social Security number.”
“I had access because we’re married.”
“That is not permission.”
“I know.”
“No, Adrian. You clearly don’t.”
He started crying.
Actual crying.
For years, hearing my husband cry would have destroyed me.
Now it only made me listen harder.
“I panicked, Camila.”
“You forged my signature.”
“I didn’t forge—”
“Then how did I open a business?”
He went silent.
There it was.
Another confession hidden inside silence.
“Who helped you?”
“No one.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Camila.”
“Did Rachel know?”
Pause.
My heart sank.
“Did she?”
“Not at first.”
Not at first.
I almost laughed.
“When did she find out?”
“A few months ago.”
“And she stayed?”
“She thought I was fixing it.”
“Was the apartment paid for with money from those accounts?”
Silence.
“Adrian.”
“Yes.”
I pressed my fist against my mouth.
My money.
My credit.
My name.
His mistress’s apartment.
There are betrayals so outrageous they stop hurting for a moment because your brain simply refuses to process them.
“You financed your affair with debt in my name.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“What exactly was it like?”
“I was planning to sell some investments.”
“You didn’t have investments. You had losses.”
“I could recover.”
“And when you told Rachel you were going to ‘fix everything,’ what did that mean?”
He didn’t answer.
“Were you planning to leave me?”
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
“Adrian.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You knew enough to create a company.”
“I was trapped.”
“By whom?”
Silence.
Then he said something I didn’t expect.
“My mother.”
I stared at the phone.
“What?”
“She knew everything.”
“That’s not what she said.”
“Of course not. She’s protecting herself.”
“What did she know?”
“Everything.”
I looked at Mariana.
She moved closer.
“Speaker,” she mouthed.
I pressed the button.
Adrian continued:
“She found out about the debt before you got pregnant.”
My stomach dropped.
Before.
Before Lucy.
Before the affair, supposedly.
Before the fake company.
“What happened?”
“She offered to help me.”
“How?”
“She had money from selling Dad’s old property.”
My father-in-law had died four years earlier.
Teresa had sold land he owned outside the city.
I remembered Adrian telling me she had put the money into retirement.
“She loaned you money?”
“At first.”
“How much?”
“Eighty thousand.”
My mother whispered something under her breath.
“And you lost that too?”
“Yes.”
My disgust must have traveled through the phone because Adrian rushed on.
“That’s when she came up with the company.”
I froze.
“She came up with it?”
“She knew your credit was good.”
Mariana’s eyes narrowed.
“And she knew you wouldn’t check because you were focused on getting pregnant.”
My hand moved instinctively over my belly.
There it was.
The part I couldn’t forgive.
They hadn’t merely taken advantage of me.
They had calculated my distraction.
My hope.
My pregnancy.
They had looked at the happiest thing in my life and decided it made me easier to deceive.
“She said we could move enough money through the business to refinance everything later.”
“Using my name.”
“Yes.”
“And the client payments?”
Adrian stopped.
Lauren’s warning came back.
Client payments.
Company money.
“Adrian.”
His breathing changed.
“What did you do with client money?”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“Then explain.”
“I redirected some payments temporarily.”
“That sounds exactly like stealing.”
“I was putting it back.”
“Were you?”
Silence.
“How much is missing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know.”
“I don’t know the final number.”
“How much, Adrian?”
His voice broke.
“Maybe four hundred.”
I stopped breathing.
My mother grabbed my arm.
“Four hundred thousand?”
“Some of it was replaced.”
“HOW MUCH IS STILL MISSING?”
“I don’t know!”
Lucy kicked sharply.
Pain shot through my lower abdomen.
I doubled over.
“Camila?”
Mariana grabbed the phone.
“We’re done.”
She disconnected.
I breathed slowly.
My mother knelt in front of me.
“Are you having contractions?”
“No.”
Another cramp tightened across my belly.
Then released.
Probably stress.
Please let it be stress.
“We’re going to the hospital,” my mother said.
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I was in maternity triage with monitors strapped around my stomach.
Lucy’s heartbeat filled the room.
Strong.
Fast.
Beautiful.
I started crying.
Not because anything was wrong.
Because after twenty-four hours of lies, fraud, mistresses and secret apartments, that heartbeat was the only thing I trusted.
The doctor examined me.
“Your baby looks good.”
I exhaled.
“You’re having some uterine irritability, likely worsened by stress and dehydration. We’re going to monitor you for a while.”
My mother sat beside the bed holding my hand.
Mariana had stepped outside to make calls.
For the first time all day, I allowed myself to close my eyes.
Then someone knocked.
I opened them.
Rachel stood in the doorway.
I stared at her.
She looked nothing like the woman who had entered my baby shower.
No perfect blowout.
No pink dress.
No confidence.
Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail.
Her face was bare.
Her eyes were swollen.
“What are you doing here?”
She held up both hands.
“I’m not here to fight.”
My mother stood.
“Then you chose the wrong hospital room.”
“Mom.”
Rachel swallowed.
“I heard Adrian tell Lauren you’d gone to the hospital.”
“How did you hear Adrian talking to Lauren?”
“He came to the office.”
Of course he did.
He had probably gone there trying to save his job.
“I need five minutes,” Rachel said.
“You’ve had six months.”
“I know.”
The answer surprised me.
She looked down.
“I know.”
Something about her voice made me look at her differently.
Not kindly.
But carefully.
“What do you want?”
She reached into her purse.
“I brought you something.”
My mother moved closer to the bed.
Rachel pulled out a flash drive.
Small.
Black.
Ordinary.
She placed it on the tray beside me.
“What is that?”
“Everything Adrian kept at the apartment.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What do you mean everything?”
“Bank statements. Spreadsheets. Copies of transfers. Screenshots. Emails.”
I stared at her.
“Why do you have them?”
“Because three months ago, I realized he was lying to me too.”
My jaw tightened.
“Congratulations.”
“I deserve that.”
“Yes, you do.”
She nodded.
“But I stayed because I thought if I left, I’d never find out what he was doing.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t.”
That answer stopped me.
Rachel looked directly at me.
“You shouldn’t believe anything I say without proof.”
She pointed to the drive.
“So I brought proof.”
I looked at it.
“What’s on there?”
Her face changed.
Fear.
Real fear.
“Adrian wasn’t working alone.”
“I know. His mother helped him.”
Rachel shook her head.
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then who?”
She took a breath.
“Teresa helped with the accounts.”
“That’s what I said.”
“But she wasn’t the person directing the transfers.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Who was?”
Rachel looked toward the hallway before answering.
“Someone from his company.”
Lauren.
The thought came instantly.
No.
I pushed it away.
Lauren had helped me.
Lauren had exposed him.
“Who?”
Rachel hesitated.
Then she said:
“I don’t know their real name.”
“What do you mean?”
“Adrian never used it around me.”
“Then what did he call them?”
Rachel looked at the monitor beside my bed.
Then back at me.
“He called them North.”
I frowned.
“North?”
“Yes.”
“Who is North?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do they do?”
“I only heard pieces. Adrian would take calls outside. Sometimes late at night. Whenever North called, Adrian panicked.”
I looked at the flash drive again.
“Is North on there?”
Rachel nodded.
“Emails.”
“Can they identify this person?”
“Maybe.”
“Why didn’t you take this to the police?”
Rachel’s eyes filled.
“Because I’m implicated too.”
There it was.
Finally.
The truth behind the sudden conscience.
“How?”
“The apartment.”
“What about it?”
“My name is on the lease paperwork.”
“I thought it belonged to Teresa.”
“The building does.”
I blinked.
“What?”
Rachel lowered her voice.
“Teresa never sold that apartment.”
My mother and I exchanged a look.
“Adrian told me she rented it to us privately. I paid him part of the rent every month.”
“With what?”
“My own money.”
“And where did your payments go?”
“I don’t know.”
Another hidden stream.
Another account.
Another lie.
Rachel wiped her cheek.
“And I used one of the business cards.”
I stared at her.
“You knew it was in my name?”
“No. Adrian told me it belonged to him.”
“When did you find out?”
“Four days ago.”
Before the shower.
My voice hardened.
“You knew before you came.”
“Yes.”
“And you still came to my baby shower.”
Tears spilled down her face.
“I thought you already knew.”
“What?”
“Adrian told me you invited me because you wanted to talk privately after the party.”
I laughed bitterly.
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed a lot of things.”
“So did I.”
For the first time, neither of us had anything to say.
Two women.
Same man.
Different lies.
My mother looked at the flash drive.
“What exactly frightened you enough to bring this here?”
Rachel’s face went pale.
“There’s an email from North dated three weeks ago.”
My skin prickled.
“What does it say?”
She looked at me.
“It mentions you.”
My throat tightened.
“What about me?”
Rachel hesitated.
Then she said:
“It says, ‘Once the baby arrives, Camila becomes the liability.’”
Every sound in the room disappeared.
Even Lucy’s heartbeat seemed far away.
My mother stood.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Rachel’s voice shook.
“But there’s another message underneath.”
I stared at her.
“What message?”
She swallowed.
“Adrian replied.”
My fingers went numb.
“What did my husband say?”
Rachel started crying.
“He wrote, ‘I know. I’ll handle her.’”………
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4…
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