The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 426

Chapter 209-1

The air inside Phillip Meade’s law office smells of expensive leather, floor polish, and old mahogany. Months ago, walking into this room meant sitting across from a man who represented the slow, suffocating death of my marriage.

Today, as the heavy oak door closes behind Locke, Willow, and me, the silence feels entirely

different.

I brought Willow with us today for a reason. Ever since Mr. Meade called to tell me Knox’s house would fall into my hands, an idea had taken root in my mind.

The house was massive, quiet, and completely isolated on the cliffside, bathed in endless natural light from its massive windows. It was the perfect space for Willow: a place where she could live, set up her yoga studio, and run her wellness workshops away from the noise

of the world.

A place to start fresh.

“Ms. Callahan,” Mr. Meade says, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he rises from his massive executive desk. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”

He offers a polite nod to Locke, whose massive frame practically swallows the space whole, and then to Willow, who looks decidedly out of place in the sterile, high-end legal suite with her nineteen bracelets and faux-fur vest.

“It’s no problem,” I say quietly, taking the leather armchair across from him. “Tell me what exactly I’m looking at here.”

He sighs, pulling a thick, black leather-bound binder from the side of his desk and opening it flat. The crisp white pages inside are lined with legal entries, property deeds, tax assessments, and bank statements.

“As I explained over the phone,” Mr. Meade begins, his fountain pen clicking against the wooden blotter. “Because your decree nisi was not yet finalized by the court prior to Mr. McVale’s passing, you remain his legal widow.”

I nod.

“In the eyes of the law, he died intestate, which means without a valid, updated will revoking your marital rights. Consequently, you are the sole beneficiary of the entirety of Mr. McVale’s

estate.”

He pushes the binder toward me. My eyes scan the top page, where a bold, block-letter

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Chapter 209 1

header reads:

ESTATE SUMMARY & INVENTORY OF ASSETS: AIDAN DANIEL MCVALE (KNOX)

+25 Points

“This document outlines the entire scope of his commercial and personal holdings,” Mr. Meade explains, turning a page for me. “The residential property on Crestview Drive – the marital home – is held solely under Mr. McVale’s name. That title transfers to you immediately upon execution of these probate filings.”

“I own the house just like that?”

“Yes. In addition, there are six commercial properties held under various limited liability companies, and two personal bank accounts, as well as numerous business accounts.”

“These accounts,” Locke says, his deep voice cutting through the quiet office like a blade. ” How many active balances are there?”

“Seven primary accounts across three separate financial institutions,” Meade replies, sliding a spreadsheet toward us. “The combined liquid cash across all accounts currently stands at two point two million dollars.”

I start. “What? No. Yesterday you said the total was just under a million.”

“That was before we discovered some shall we say – more hidden accounts. And I must advise you, Ms. Callahan, the transaction histories on three of those accounts are… highly irregular.”

I look down at the highlighted lines. Large deposits incoming from off-shore shell companies (almost certainly Vane’s), followed by immediate transfers to chemical supply firms, industrial equipment leases, and private freight logistics.

“Irregular’ is a nice word for drug money,” I say, my stomach turning sickeningly. “Jesus.”

“Be that as it may, on paper, those accounts belong to the estate,” Mr. Meade says carefully. ” To claim these assets, execute the transfers, and authorize the eventual liquidation or disposition of the real estate, you simply need to sign the probate petitions accepting the

role of executor.”

He hands me a silver pen.

I sign my name on five separate lines: Zara McVale.

With every signature, a piece of Knox’s shadow seems to bind itself to my skin, heavier and darker than before. When I place the pen back down, Mr. Meade produces a small brass key ring attached to a leather tag.

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