Chapter 2

Grace Gardner's POV

After wiping away my tears, I did not wait for Zachary to return to the bedroom like I usually did.

Since this man could not be relied on, I could only rely on myself.

That night, I sat under the cold desk lamp and went through the daily reimbursement records from my seven years in the Foster family all over again.

The principal Mrs. Foster claimed could never be paid off had long since been settled in my bank statement.

The so-called difference was a dead debt that the finance manager had forcibly squeezed out by cutting off the beginning and end of items I had already repaid, then piling on compound interest like they were sucking blood!

Early the next morning, as expected, word came from the old family estate again, telling me to go over and reconcile the accounts.

The finance manager held a tablet, his voice cold as he checked the accounts entry by entry.

Mrs. Foster sat high and mighty on the main mahogany sofa, then slapped that photocopied fake promissory note down in front of me.

“Take it back and look at it carefully! Look at exactly how much that father of yours still owes our Foster family!”

I lowered my eyes and did not argue a single word.

I picked up that photocopy, folded it, and put it into my pocket.

And in that same pocket, pressed tightly beneath it, was the bank statement that showed the debt had already been paid in full.

When I left the old family estate, I deliberately stopped Walter, the butler, and tentatively brought up the accounts.

Walter paused for half a beat, his gaze contemptuous. “Mrs. Foster has the original promissory note in her hands. Naturally, what Mrs. Foster says is what counts. Besides, Mr. Foster is so busy. How would he have time to interfere with household accounts?”

My heart could not have died any more thoroughly.

Late at night, I hid in the cramped storage room.

I tried calling to consult about a small loan, wanting to leave myself some escape money that would not go through the Foster family accounts.

The customer service representative’s voice was cold and mechanical. “Ma’am, you have no proof of income. Your spouse would need to sign a consent form.”

The hand holding my phone fell limply.

A spouse’s signature?

That would be the same as telling Zachary I was checking the accounts and preparing to run away!

I stuffed the original bank statement and that photocopy of the fake promissory note into the most hidden compartment of an old suitcase, then covered them tightly with worn-out curtains.

In this man-eating mansion, money, accounts, and status were all locks, one after another.

But this time, the evidence belonged only to me.