Chapter 3 - Unlocking the Shadows
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I stared at the password prompt blinking on the screen.
Bernardet hadn’t given me a code. She had only whispered a desperate plea to run.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to think back to the estate. Bernardet had been the head housekeeper for twelve years. She was meticulously organized, keeping leather-bound logs of every delivery, every dinner party, and every maintenance check in her small pantry office.
What numbers would a woman like Bernardet use?
I tried the date of the Montgomery family foundation's establishment. Incorrect.
I tried the estate's street address. Incorrect.
My heart sank. One more failed attempt, and the security software embedded in the drive threatened to lock the partition permanently.
I recalled the moment Bernardet slipped the drive into my bag. Her eyes hadn't just been filled with fear; they had been darting toward the portrait of Lachlan’s late father hanging in the grand hallway—Julian Montgomery, who had died under sudden, quiet circumstances five years ago.
Below his portrait was an engraved brass plaque with his date of birth and death.
I typed in the numbers: 04121971.
The screen flickered. A green checkmark flashed, and the folder opened instantly, revealing dozens of subdirectories packed with PDF documents, high-resolution scanned receipts, and audio files.
I clicked on the top file labeled Asset_Liquidation_Log.pdf.
As I scrolled through the pages, my breath hitched in my throat.
The Montgomerys weren't wealthy. In fact, they were drowning.
Page after page detailed massive, secret high-interest loans, mortgaged land titles, and astronomical gambling debts accrued under Lachlan’s name across offshore casinos in Macau and Monaco.
The entire lavish wedding, the diamond ring on my finger, the sprawling estate—it was all a crumbling facade held together by shell companies and unpaid loans.
Then my eyes caught a highlighted entry near the bottom of the ledger.
May you like
It was a wire transfer of two hundred thousand dollars, executed three months ago, originating from a trust fund set up under my late grandmother’s estate—a trust fund that was supposed to remain untouched until my thirtieth birthday.
My stomach churned with nausea. They hadn’t just wanted a servant. They had drained my inheritance before I even walked down the aisle.
