Free Do Us Part (The Dumont Diaries (#4)) by Alessandra Torre

CHAPTER 1
    M y time at the Crystal Palace changed me — hardened me into a survivor, shooting steel into parts of me that were previously weak and bendable.
    So, even when my heart was falling, free and unrestrained, diving downward into a pool of ridiculousness, my brain knew better. My brain planned for the inevitable, for the disappointment, and the disaster that lay ahead. My brain made sure that there would be a parachute to catch me, to ensure that my weak heart wouldn’t doom the rest of me.

    I sit next to Nathan, shooting him a nervous smile. He reaches over, looping his fingers through mine, tugging a hand free and planting a soft kiss on the back on it. “Relax,” he murmurs.
    I try, letting out a breath and rolling my neck slightly to relieve the tension there.
    “Mrs. Dumont!” The dark-skinned man strides up to me with a smile, reaching forward and enthusiastically shaking my hand. “I am Leo Brantling. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    I match his smile, returning his handshake and gesturing to Nathan. “Mr. Brantling, this is Nathan Dumont.”
    The man turns to Nathan with a smile, repeating the greeting ritual. “Come, come. Let’s step into my office.”
    His office turns out to be a small glass cube, right off the lobby, with two worn chairs in front of a crowded desk. I had envisioned riding an elevator, walking through ornate halls and lobbies until we reached a large corner office. I set down my purse and shift uncomfortably in the chair.
    “Now, how can we help you this morning?” The man addresses me, understandable given the fact that my name is the one on the account.
    “I’d like to transfer all of the funds in my account.” I reach into my bag, pulling out the card that Nathan had given me two days prior, the account number written on the back.
    “Will they be leaving the bank?” This seems to be of concern to the man, whose eyebrows meet in a worried pinch above his brown eyes.
    Nathan leans forward in his chair. “No, they will be transferred to my account, here at the bank.”
    “Very well.” The man smiles. “Is that the account number?” When I nod, he takes the card, setting it before him and begins to type, his attention on the screen. “I’ll need identification, preferably a passport, for both of you. Mr. Dumont, may I have your account number?”
    As Nathan speaks, I pull out my passport, a slight tremor in my hands. My fingers smooth over the rough blue plastic, opening it slightly to see my new name staring confidently back at me. Jennifer Ann Dumont.
    I am Jennifer Ann Dumont. I was born on June 6, 1984. I am Jennifer Ann Dumont.
    “Mrs. Dumont, can you verify your social security number for me?”
    I recite the numbers, grateful for the time Nathan insisted I spend memorizing Jennifer’s social. Then I hand over the passport, aware of the change in power that is occurring right here, right now. The weight of influence shifts with every dollar that transfers from Jennifer’s account to Nathan’s. After this, I will be expendable, my purpose fulfilled. No reason other than honor to keep his promises and care for my father.
    It is done entirely too quickly, the entire process taking less than five minutes. $54,236,301.59 transferred from one person to another faster than a twenty-dollar lap dance. Nathan is unhappy with the amount, a scowl stealing over his face when he sees the figure. “What’s wrong?” I whisper, scrawling a signature as I have been shown to do: a big, looping J followed by a swirl of squiggles, then the last name in clear, bubbly cursive.
    He mutters something under his breath about the poor rate of interest and then signs the form. I find it amusing that he has anything other than elation on his face, seeing as he is suddenly fifty-four million dollars richer.
    We stand as a group, the beaming Bahamian shaking our hands and inquiring about our plans for the rest of the weekend.
    Nathan loops an arm around my waist, bringing me to him.