Chapter 11 - Fifty Thousand Dollars
The bank account was real.
The money was gone.
And Delia had never opened it.
Donovan found the account by noon.
A regional bank.
Opened online.
Delia Marsh listed as account holder.
Fifty thousand dollars transferred from a private trust Isabella controlled.
Forty-eight hours later, the funds had been transferred out.
Recipient:
Marche Community Outreach Services.
Delia stared at the paperwork.
“What is that?”
“A nonprofit,” Donovan said.
Anton looked unimpressed.
“A fake one.”
“Technically registered.”
“Meaning fake with paperwork.”
“Yes.”
Delia rubbed her forehead.
“So someone used my identity.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Anton answered.
“To make it look like Isabella paid you.”
“For what?”
Nobody answered.
Delia laughed bitterly.
“Wonderful.”
She looked at Anton.
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
Instant.
No hesitation.
That mattered more than she wanted it to.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because if Isabella intended to secretly transfer fifty thousand dollars to you, she wouldn't send it through a fraudulent account and immediately move it to one of Vittorio's shell charities.”
Delia raised an eyebrow.
“Shell charity?”
“His organization collected donations and spent most of them on administration.”
“Rich-people theft.”
“Essentially.”
Donovan coughed.
Anton glared.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Delia almost smiled.
“Did Vittorio steal the money?”
“We think so.”
“Why use my name?”
“To discredit Isabella if she challenged him.”
Anton leaned against the desk.
“Imagine Isabella tells the board Vittorio is misusing charitable funds.”
Delia understood.
“He shows everyone she secretly gave fifty grand to some random woman.”
“Exactly.”
“A woman he could portray as unstable or financially vulnerable.”
“Yes.”
Delia's anger sharpened.
“He investigated me to build a weapon against his own niece-in-law.”
Anton nodded.
“And after Isabella died?”
“The weapon became unnecessary.”
“Except my name was already in his system.”
“Yes.”
“And when I appeared at the NICU?”
“He panicked.”
“Because I might learn about the fake account.”
“Yes.”
Delia sat slowly.
Everything aligned.
Ugly.
Simple.
Human.
Not destiny.
Fraud.
Control.
Vittorio had turned a stranger into a tool because Isabella once saw goodness in her.
Then he spent years trying to keep the two worlds from touching.
Anton stood.
“I'm going to the authorities.”
Delia looked up.
“About the fraud?”
“All of it.”
“Your company?”
“If necessary.”
“Your family's reputation?”
“I don't care.”
She studied him.
Six months earlier, reputation might have mattered.
Now three children's voices mattered more.
Anton called his attorney.
By evening, financial records had been turned over to investigators.
Vittorio's lawyers issued denials.
The press discovered his suspension.
News vans appeared outside Marchetti Holdings.
Then outside Anton's house.
Then outside Bayou Grace.
Frank stood in the doorway holding a broom.
“If one more reporter blocks the pie delivery, I'm committing a felony.”
Delia laughed.
“You've been waiting your whole life for this.”
“Maybe.”
A reporter shouted.
“Miss Marsh! Were you paid by Isabella Marchetti?”
Delia's smile vanished.
Another called:
“Are you the children's new nanny?”
Another:
“Is Anton Marchetti supporting you financially?”
Frank stepped outside.
“No comment!”
Then added:
“And order food or move!”
Delia pulled him back.
“You are terrible at media relations.”
“I run a diner.”
“Exactly.”
That night Delia discovered the internet.
She regretted it.
Photos of her.
Old social media pictures.
Comment threads.
Speculation.
Body jokes.
Gold-digger comments.
One headline called her:
THE MYSTERY PLUS-SIZE WOMAN AT THE CENTER OF MARCHETTI FAMILY SCANDAL.
Delia stared at it.
Plus-size wasn't an insult.
She had spent years learning that.
Still, watching strangers use her body as evidence of unworthiness made old wounds reopen.
One commenter wrote:
No way a man like Anton wants her. It's obviously about the babies.
Delia shut the laptop.
Ten minutes later someone knocked.
She opened the door.
Anton.
No suit.
Dark sweater.
Two paper bags.
“What are you doing here?”
“Dinner.”
“I didn't invite you.”
“No.”
“Is this a habit?”
“What?”
“Appearing when I don't invite you.”
“Possibly.”
She looked at the bags.
“What food?”
“Gumbo.”
“From where?”
“Not Bayou Grace.”
“Come in.”
Anton placed the food on the table.
They ate quietly.
Eventually Delia asked, “Have you seen what people are saying?”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Yes.”
“Because they're insulting me?”
“Yes.”
“Or because they're connecting me to you?”
Anton looked offended.
“The first.”
She studied him.
“You don't care what people think?”
“I've spent most of my life caring too much.”
“That's not an answer.”
He put down his spoon.
“I care about business consequences. Security. My children's privacy.”
“And me?”
Anton looked directly at her.
“I care that strangers are being cruel to you because of me.”
“Not because of you.”
“My world.”
“Still not your fault.”
He sighed.
“You use that sentence frequently.”
“You need it frequently.”
Delia looked toward her closed laptop.
“Someone said you could never want a woman who looks like me.”
Anton became still.
She immediately regretted saying it.
“This isn't me fishing for compliments.”
“I know.”
“I don't need you to tell me I'm beautiful.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“You are.”
Delia stared.
Anton calmly ate another spoonful of gumbo.
“That was manipulative.”
“No.”
“I specifically said—”
“You said you didn't need me to tell you.”
“Correct.”
“You didn't say I wasn't allowed.”
She tried not to smile.
Failed.
Anton smiled too.
Then the room became suddenly quiet.
The attraction had been there in fragments.
A glance.
A joke.
A hand over his.
Neither had named it.
Delia stood and carried dishes to the sink.
Anton followed.
“Delia.”
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Make this complicated.”
“It already is.”
“The children—”
“I know.”
“Isabella—”
“I know.”
“Your family.”
“I know.”
She turned.
“You need someone uncomplicated.”
“I don't think that person exists.”
“You know what I mean.”
Anton leaned against the counter.
“I am not asking you for anything.”
“Good.”
“But I won't pretend I don't see you.”
The sentence silenced her.
Not need you.
Not appreciate you.
See you.
Delia looked away.
Anton didn't move closer.
That mattered.
He gave her room.
His phone buzzed.
He checked it.
Expression changed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That's obviously something.”
He handed her the phone.
A message from Donovan.
We identified the source of the press leak about Delia's miscarriage.
Delia's stomach dropped.
She grabbed the phone.
“Press leak?”
Anton went pale.
“You didn't see it?”
“No.”
He closed his eyes.
Too late.
Delia opened the article.
Buried near the bottom:
Sources say Marsh previously suffered a pregnancy loss after being abandoned by the child's father.
Her vision blurred.
“That information was private.”
“I know.”
“Only Caleb knew.”
“And your medical provider.”
Delia looked up.
“Hospital records.”
Anton nodded slowly.
Someone had accessed her private grief.
Someone had fed it to reporters.
The investigation that began with three babies saying Mama had moved into Delia's most private pain.
Anton called Donovan.
“Who leaked it?”
Donovan answered immediately.
“We traced payment to a public-relations consultant.”
“Working for?”
A pause.
Then:
“Vittorio Marchetti.”
Delia closed her eyes.
Anton said, “I'm ending this.”
But Delia opened her eyes again.
“No.”
Anton looked at her.
“What?”
She straightened.
For years people had made decisions around her.
Caleb.
Vittorio.
Celeste.
Hospital administrators.
Now Anton.
“No more people deciding how my story gets handled.”
“What do you want?”
Delia picked up her phone.
Her hands stopped shaking.
“I want to tell it myself.”
May you like
And the following morning, New Orleans woke to Delia Marsh standing on the steps of Bayou Grace Diner, facing every camera Vittorio had sent her way.
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