“This is ridiculous,” he said. “Maya, tell your little courthouse husband to stop embarrassing himself.”
Ethan clenched his jaw but stayed silent.
I looked directly at him.
“What evidence?”
He drew a slow breath.
“After your father called my office threatening to destroy my career, I looked into the foundation he mentioned. The Whitmore Hope Fund.”
A wave of nausea settled in my stomach.
The Whitmore Hope Fund had always been my mother’s greatest source of pride. Every holiday season, our family smiled beside oversized scholarship checks supposedly awarded to foster children. Dad adored those photo opportunities. He always stood in the middle with one hand resting on my shoulder, smiling as though generosity itself belonged to him.
Marcus Bell stepped forward, his voice remaining composed.
“Ethan noticed that several scholarship recipients listed by the foundation did not exist. Their addresses were empty lots, closed businesses, or homes belonging to Whitmore employees.”
