The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 167

Vivian

I hadn't visited Grandma Eleanor in days. What was the point? I had no desire to show up at Aveline's house and accidentally witness more developments in her blissful love story, or endure more of those insufferably pitying looks she specialized in.

So when I came home today to find Monica bustling around the kitchen with an armload of expensive groceries—organic salmon fillets, imported truffle oil, aged balsamic vinegar, prime ribeye steaks, and what looked like a bottle of Dom Pérignon that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent—I was genuinely surprised.

Even more shocking was her attitude. Gone was the usual sharp edge to her voice, replaced by something that almost resembled maternal warmth.

"Today must be some kind of special occasion," I said, unable to keep the curiosity out of my voice.

Monica was practically humming as she arranged the groceries. "Oh, Vivian, just wait until you—"

"The money's here!" Richard burst out of his study, laptop clutched against his chest like a prize trophy. "Five million, sitting pretty in our Cayman account as of this morning!"

"Richard!" Monica's voice carried a musical quality I'd never heard before. "Tell her about the brilliant plan!"

He settled onto the couch, fingers dancing across the keyboard with obvious pride. "It's foolproof, princess. We've already safely transferred our funds, and now we just have one final step. We split this into smaller amounts—two fifty here, one fifty there—and funnel them through four separate Cyprus shell companies. Different business categories, different registration dates. By the time it cycles through, the money's clean as a whistle and completely untraceable."

I blinked. "That sounds... unnecessarily complicated."

"Complicated?" Monica let out a delighted laugh, pulling wine glasses from the cabinet. "Darling, your father is practically a virtuoso when it comes to financial... creativity. The beauty is in the complexity! Multiple jurisdictions, layered transactions—it's virtually impossible to prosecute."

"Well," I said, my voice deliberately flat, "as long as I get my two and a half million."

Monica's champagne-popping celebration came to an abrupt halt. "Vivian, honey, are you sure you want half? That's an enormous amount for someone your age. Maybe we should start you with something more manageable—"

"Absolutely not." Richard's voice cut through her protest like steel. "I promised my daughter, and I keep my promises. A woman without her own money is just a beautiful prisoner."

Despite everything, his words sent unexpected warmth through my chest. At least one person in this house actually gave a damn about my future.

Richard was back to his laptop, practically glowing as he navigated between accounts. "You should see the setup, Viv. The Cyprus companies look completely legitimate—import/export, consulting, real estate development, tech services. Even if someone wanted to investigate—"

His voice died mid-sentence.

"What the hell?" The color drained from his face as he stared at the screen. "This can't be right. The account... it's showing frozen."

Monica's wine glass froze halfway to her lips. "Frozen? What do you mean, frozen?"

"I mean locked! Completely locked!" Richard's voice climbed toward hysteria. "The money's there, but I can't touch it!"

Monica dropped her glass, red wine splashing across the marble countertop as she rushed to look over his shoulder. "Oh God, oh God, this can't be happening! Call them! Call them right now!"

A sick feeling twisted in my stomach. "Dad, remind me—who exactly approved that loan?"

"Orion Blackwell." The name came out like a curse.

"Orion Blackwell?" Monica's voice went shrill with panic. "The same Orion who probably still hates Vivian for that kidnapping fiasco? God knows what kind of conspiracy he and that stepdaughter are plotting together! Richard, how could you be so naive?"

A wave of nausea hit me as her words sank in. Everything always came back to my mistakes, didn't it? Even in the middle of this financial disaster, somehow it was still my fault. I could feel that familiar knot of shame and anger twisting in my stomach, but I forced myself to stay silent.

"Shut up and let me think!" But Richard's hands were shaking as he dialed the bank. "This has to be some kind of mistake. A technical glitch."

Monica jabbed the speakerphone button with enough force to nearly break it. "Put it on speaker. I want to hear every word."

The phone rang twice before connecting.

"International Banking Services, this is Customer Relations."

"Yes, hello, this is Richard Hartwell. I need to speak with someone about my account immediately. There appears to be some kind of error—"

"Account number, please."

Richard rattled off the digits, his voice tight with barely controlled anxiety.

"One moment, sir."

During the hold music, I watched Monica's transformation with morbid fascination.

Her manicured fingers clutched at Richard's shirt sleeve so tightly her knuckles went white, and she kept muttering under her breath: "This can't be happening, this can't be happening..."

When the representative returned, her voice was arctic professional.

"Mr. Hartwell, I see the issue. Your account has been flagged for suspicious activity related to potential money laundering and commercial fraud. We've received formal cooperation requests from the U.S. Treasury's Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, as well as the SEC. The account has been placed under indefinite freeze pending the completion of a federal investigation."

The line went dead.

For exactly three seconds, Monica stood frozen.

Then she exploded.

"You fucking idiot!" she screamed, shoving Richard so hard he tumbled backward off the couch. "You walked straight into a trap! Five million dollars down the drain because you're too stupid to see when you're being played!"

Richard hit the floor hard, his glasses flying off and skittering across the hardwood. He just sat there, blinking dazedly at the ceiling like his brain had short-circuited.

That's when someone knocked on the front door.

"Is this the Hartwell residence?" came a crisp, authoritative voice. "Please open the door. I'm Attorney General Davidson from the Manhattan District Attorney's Office."