The financial advisor’s office was sparse, with a single potted plant in the corner and a large window overlooking a busy street. As I sat in the stiff leather chair, a folder was pushed across the desk toward me. “Please, take a look at these,” she said, her voice calm but firm. I opened the folder to find a series of bank statements, each one dated with March 15th circled in red pen. The transactions listed were unfamiliar, linked to accounts I’d never seen before.
“You’ve been redirecting funds,” she repeated, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glasses. I could feel the weight of her gaze, the quiet power in her composed demeanor. She was used to delivering news like this, I thought, but for me, it was a first.
I nodded, more to myself than to her, as I tried to piece together what this meant. The room was silent except for the occasional rustle of paper as I flipped through the pages. My phone vibrated in my pocket, a distraction I didn’t need right now. The message was from my spouse: “Everything is fine. We’ll talk later.”
“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
“I can’t answer that,” she replied, her smile practiced, a professional mask not quite reaching her eyes. It was clear she had her own boundaries, lines she wouldn’t cross in this conversation.
As I closed the folder, I knew this was just the start. I would have to continue this investigation on my own, delving into documents, seeking legal advice, and confronting my spouse, all while treading carefully in this unfamiliar territory.
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