The Billionaire’s Notorious Villainess Stepmother Chapter 07
The Stolen Trust Fund
I found the receipts at two in the morning.
After the lockdown drill, the staff feared me enough not to stop me.
Cassandra’s office sat on the second floor of the west wing. She claimed it was only for household and charity work.
I let myself in. Closed the door. Pulled every file from every drawer.
It took me three hours to understand it.
Alistair sent money home every month. A lot of money. Enough to raise two children in luxury, pay for their schools, and fill their trust fund.
The trust was empty.
Every dollar had been moved out. Cash withdrawals. Card payments. Transfers to a name I did not know: Roland Pierce.
I pulled up more. Credit card bills under Cassandra’s name. Fifty thousand at a resort in the Maldives. Thirty thousand at a private members’ club in Manhattan. Eighty thousand sent to Pierce in one month.
Roland Pierce was her lover. He had been using the children’s money to cover failed investments and private club debts.
I sat back in Cassandra’s chair and stared at the numbers.
Sebastian didn’t have a winter coat. Clara’s shoes had cardboard stuffed inside to cover the holes.
These children were heirs to a fortune.
Cassandra had left them in old clothes while her boyfriend burned through their money at poker tables.
I didn’t call Alistair.
That was what a weak woman would do. Run crying to a man overseas, beg him to fix it, wait months for justice.
I was not weak.
By sunrise, I had a plan.
I called Danny Cho, an old finance contact from my Thorne days. He owed me for keeping his name clean during a tax audit.
“Danny. I need Blackwood credit lines frozen. Everything Cassandra controls.”
“Whose?”
“Anything tied to Cassandra Blackwood. Her cards, her household accounts, and a man named Roland Pierce.”
Silence. Then a low whistle. “You’re picking a dangerous fight, Vivienne.”
“Good. Can you do it by noon?”
“Give me till ten.”
By nine forty-five, every Blackwood account Cassandra controlled was locked. Her cards failed. Pierce lost access. Three hidden accounts tied to family money were frozen.
At ten, I walked into her bedroom without knocking.
Cassandra was at her vanity, applying lipstick. She saw me in the mirror and her hand froze.
“Get out of my room.”
I dropped the files on her bed. Statements. Wire transfers. Photos of Pierce at a private members’ club with her money—Alistair’s money—spread across the table in front of him.
Cassandra turned slowly.
Her face drained.
“Where did you—”
“Three million dollars,” I said. “That’s what you stole from Sebastian and Clara’s trust. Three million. Gone. To your boyfriend’s bad investments and private club bills.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” I pulled out my phone and showed her the freeze notice. “Every Blackwood dollar you touch is locked. Your cards won’t work. Your boyfriend cannot pull money from us anymore. It’s done.”
She stood up so fast her chair fell. “You can’t DO this—”
“Already did.”
“That money is MINE. I earned it. I raised those brats for years while Alistair was gone—”
“You starved them. You dressed them in rags. You let your son use Sebastian as a punching bag.” I stepped closer. “You didn’t earn a cent. You stole it.”
Cassandra grabbed her phone. She called the bank, and her face fell when the freeze was confirmed.
She tried another number. Then another.
Nothing worked.
She turned to me, shaking. Mascara already running.
“I’ll tell Alistair. I’ll tell him you’re stealing from the family—”
“Go ahead. Tell him. And when he asks for proof, I’ll show him these.” I tapped the files on her bed. “Every payment. Every lie. Every dollar you sent to a man outside this family.”
Her mouth opened. Closed.
“Oh, and Cassandra?” I picked up the velvet box on her nightstand. Opened it. A diamond necklace worth at least forty thousand. “This goes to a private auction today. So do the limited-edition bags, the watches, and everything else you bought with the children’s money.”
“NO—”
“Consider it interest.” I tucked the box under my arm. “You owe those children three million. I intend to collect. Every ring. Every bracelet. Every pair of earrings you bought with their future.”
I walked to the door.
“You’re a monster,” she whispered.
I paused. Looked back.
“No, Cassandra. I’m their mother. And you just found out what that means.”
That afternoon, an appraiser and two men from a private auction house arrived for Cassandra’s jewelry, watches, and Hermès bags. She locked herself in her room and screamed for an hour.
Nobody came to help her.
By evening, Sebastian had a new winter coat, Clara had boots that fit, and the trust account had its first deposit back.
It wasn’t enough. Not yet. But it was a start.
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