Chapter 2 - Whispers of the Past
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The voice on the other end of the line went dead silent for a long, agonizing moment. Marcus was not an easy man to shock; he had spent thirty years knee-deep in corporate espionage and the kind of high-stakes investigative journalism that powerful men paid millions to bury. But hearing my voice, sharp and laced with an intent that brooked no argument, clearly rattled him.
—Amelia, Apex Logistics went under a decade ago, he finally said, his voice dropping to a cautious murmur. —The founder, Julian Vance, vanished off the coast of Maine right around the time Ethan Cole managed to secure his first massive venture capital injection. Everyone called it a tragic accident. The case was closed within forty-eight hours. Are you telling me...
—I'm not telling you anything yet, Marcus, I interrupted, my gaze fixed on the dense forest outside the window where the first evening mist was beginning to coil around the pine trunks. —I'm asking you to look at the paperwork that official investigations conveniently overlooked. Julian Vance had a daughter. A child who was placed into the foster system when she was barely five years old, right before her father’s company was swallowed whole by an unknown shell corporation—a shell corporation that, if you trace the digital footprints back far enough, was funded by a numbered account registered in the Cayman Islands under Ethan’s name.
Marcus let out a slow, sharp intake of breath.
—If this is true, Ethan didn't just build his fortune from the ground up. He built it over a graveyard. But why now? Why bring her into the mansion? If he's trying to hide a skeleton that big, putting it right in his own living room is the act of a madman.
—Ethan isn't mad, Marcus. He's cornered, I replied, pacing slowly across the wooden floorboards. —The thirty-day cooling-off period mandated by the court for our divorce isn't just a legal formality. It's a window. My lawyers discovered this morning that Ethan’s company is facing an imminent hostile takeover by an anonymous conglomerate that has been quietly buying up our non-voting shares for the past six months. He needs my signature—my fifty percent proxy voting right—to block the acquisition. By offering me a clean, silent divorce with sixty percent of the cash, he thought he could buy my compliance before I realized the company was hemorrhaging.
—And the waitress?
—She’s the trigger, I said coldly. —Or perhaps the insurance policy. If he can't get my signature, he plans to use her to prove moral turpitude, or worse, to distract the board with a sensational scandal while he liquidates the remaining assets. But he made one fatal miscalculation. He forgot that before I met him, before I ever stepped foot on a theater stage, I spent three years studying corporate law at Columbia. I know every loophole, every backdoor, and every trap he laid into our prenuptial agreement.
—What do you want me to do? Marcus asked, the professional detachment returning to his tone, sharp and ready for the hunt.
—Dig up Julian Vance’s financial records. Find out who legally adopted his daughter after he disappeared. And most importantly, find out if the girl currently living in my house knows who her real father was. Because if she doesn't, Ethan is playing a very dangerous game of Russian roulette with a loaded weapon pointed straight at his own temple.
I hung up before he could answer. The cabin was growing darker as the sun dipped entirely below the horizon, plunging the Blue Ridge property into a deep, velvety indigo. I walked over to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of tap water, and stood by the sink, letting the cold liquid ground me.
My mind raced back to the twelve years we spent together. Every anniversary, every late night in our cramped apartment when Ethan would stare at his computer screen with that fanatical, hollow look in his eyes. I had thought it was ambition. I had thought his exhaustion was the price of our shared dream. He had held my hand during the coldest winters, whispering that once we reached the top, no one would ever be able to hurt us again.
“We’re a team, Amelia. Just you and me against the world.”
Those words echoed in my head, stripped of their warmth, sounding now like a warning shot fired in an empty corridor. He hadn't wanted a partner. He had wanted an accomplice who didn't ask questions. And when I finally stopped asking questions, he assumed I had grown dull, useless, and easily discarded.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed again on the counter. It wasn't Marcus. It wasn't an anonymous text. It was a video call request from an unknown, encrypted VoIP address.
I stared at the glowing screen for three seconds before pressing accept.
The screen flickered, the video feed lagging for a fraction of a second before resolving into a clear, high-definition image. It wasn't Ethan. It was a young woman with pale skin, wide, frightened blue eyes, and long blonde hair tied back in a messy braid. She was standing in the grand foyer of the Willow Creek mansion, right beneath the massive crystal chandelier that Ethan had custom-imported from Milan.
May you like
Behind her, standing in the shadows of the curved staircase with a glass of scotch in his hand, was Ethan. His expression wasn't angry. It was terrifyingly calm.
—Amelia, Ethan’s voice cut through the speaker, smooth and devoid of any remorse. —I told you we needed to talk. It seems you’ve met Clara.
