Chapter 3 - The Midnight Audit
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Daniel didn't wait for the morning.
At two a.m., while I sat wide awake in the guest bedroom, a gentle knock echoed on the door. He didn't wait for permission to enter. He walked in holding a thick stack of printed financial documents.
He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes stark against his pale skin. He placed the papers on the edge of the bed.
“Here,” Daniel said, his voice entirely defeated. “Everything from the last six months.”
I pulled my reading glasses from the nightstand and turned on the heavy brass lamp. I didn't look at him. I just reached for the papers.
“I’m going to sleep in the den,” Daniel muttered, lingering for a second, desperately hoping I would offer some sort of comfort.
“Close the door behind you,” I replied.
The heavy door clicked shut. I began pouring over the documents. Daniel was the CEO of a massive commercial real estate firm. His private accounts were vast, complex webs of investments and liquid assets.
I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning the withdrawals.
There was the fifty thousand dollars, transferred via cashier’s check three weeks ago.
But as I looked closer, my breath hitched in my throat.
That wasn't the only transaction.
Four months ago: a wire transfer for twelve thousand dollars to a luxury boutique in Paris.
Five months ago: a charge for eight thousand dollars at a high-end resort in Aspen.
My heart began to hammer a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs. I had been in London for a conference during that week in Aspen. Daniel had told me he was attending a golf retreat with his board of directors.
I grabbed my laptop and logged into our shared cloud storage, bypassing his basic security protocols. I searched his travel itineraries.
There was no golf retreat. There was a booking for a private chalet. Two guests.
My hands began to shake uncontrollably.
It wasn't just a loan to a desperate sister. It wasn't just a misguided attempt to be a savior.
Ashley hadn't just taken his money. She had taken my husband.
I stared at the glowing screen of my laptop until my eyes burned. The urge to march downstairs and scream until my throat bled was overwhelming. But screams are easily dismissed as hysteria.
I didn't need to scream. I needed a strategy.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found a number I hadn't called in three years.
I hit dial.
May you like
“It’s late, Claire,” a deep, gravelly voice answered on the second ring.
“Mark,” I said smoothly, my voice cold as ice. “We need to have a drink. Tomorrow.”
