Chapter 3 - 5 / CHAPTER 4: Secrets in the Dark
The house was dead silent by 2:00 AM.
Natalie lay awake in the master bedroom, listening to the steady, rhythmic breathing of her husband beside her. Grant was fast asleep, one heavy arm draped over the duvet.
Carefully, agonizingly, Natalie slid out from under the covers. Every movement was a slow, deliberate exercise in pain management. She didn't put on her slippers; her bare feet glided noiselessly across the heated hardwood floors.
She wore a soft silk robe over her clothes, her arm strapped firmly in the blue sling. In her right pocket was a high-capacity encrypted USB drive given to her by Mark Callahan’s investigator that afternoon.
She slipped out of the master suite and crept down the long, glass-walled gallery toward Grant’s home study.
The door was locked with a digital keypad.
Grant changed the code every six months, but he was a creature of habit. He always used combinations related to his key achievements. Natalie stood before the small glowing panel. She typed in: 0-6-1-4-1-0—the date Mercer Global secured its first initial public investment.
The lock clicked with a soft, mechanical thunk. The blue light turned green.
Natalie slipped inside and closed the door behind her, leaving it unlatched by a fraction of an inch so she wouldn't make noise turning the handle again.
The study smelled of rich leather, expensive tobacco, and mahogany. High above the desk hung a black-and-white portrait of Grant standing alongside the Mayor of Chicago at a ground-breaking ceremony.
Natalie moved behind the massive executive desk.
Grant’s personal desktop computer was powered down, but his primary external hard drive—a heavy, ruggedized black box used for backing up his secure files—was plugged into the dock.
She pressed the power switch on the drive. A tiny green LED began to blink.
She pulled out her phone, opened the encrypted utility app Mark had set up, and connected her phone directly to the drive via a high-speed data cable.
Copying system directories... the screen displayed. A progress bar appeared: 1%.
Natalie’s heart hammered against her cracked ribs like a trapped bird. Her forehead beaded with cold sweat.
5%... 12%... 18%...
The process was agonizingly slow. The drive contained terabytes of corporate data, tax records, and personal communications.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway outside.
Natalie went completely still. Her breath hitched in her throat.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps were approaching down the gallery.
Grant.
Panic flared through her system like wildfire. If Grant caught her in his study at two in the morning tapping into his private encrypted servers, the game was over. He would strip her of access, lock down every bank account, and unleash his legal team to crush her before sunrise.
She couldn't disconnect the cable—interrupting the transfer would trigger an automated corruption alert on Grant’s phone!
The footsteps stopped right outside the study door.
The brass handle began to turn slowly.
Natalie looked around wildly. There was nowhere to hide behind the desk.
With seconds to spare, she dropped to her knees, ignoring the sharp, excruciating pain that shot through her ribs, and squeezed her body into the narrow leg well beneath the heavy oak desk. She pulled her knees tight against her chest, holding her breath.
The study door swung open.
The room’s ambient light shifted as someone walked in.
Through the narrow gap beneath the desk panel, Natalie could see a pair of bare feet.
Grant stepped into the center of the room.
He didn't turn on the overhead lights. He walked straight toward the desk.
Natalie pressed her good hand over her mouth, terrified that the heavy sound of her heart beating would give her away.
Grant stopped less than two feet from where she was crouched. He reached out and picked up his leather-bound notebook from the corner of the desk.
He stood there for what felt like an eternity, leafing through the pages in the dim moonlight filtering through the window.
Then, his phone chimed.
Grant tapped the screen. He put the phone to his ear.
"Yeah," Grant said, his voice low and raspy with sleep. "I'm awake."
A woman’s voice filtered softly through the receiver—faint, but unmistakable.
"Is she back?" the woman asked.
"Yeah," Grant replied, leaning against the desk right above Natalie’s head. "She came back this afternoon. Played the wounded, obedient wife routine. She’s upstairs sleeping."
"Did she suspect anything about the penthouse?"
"No," Grant scoffed softly. "Natalie doesn't have the stomach for a fight. She’s soft, Julianna. She spent fourteen years letting me run her life. She’s not going to start digging now."
Natalie’s blood ran ice-cold beneath the desk.
Julianna.
Julianna Vance.
Carter Vance’s younger sister—and Mercer Global’s Vice President of Corporate Communications. A woman Natalie had invited into her home for Thanksgiving dinners, charity planning sessions, and summer garden parties for the past three years.
"Good," Julianna’s voice said through the speaker. "Because if she files for divorce before the offshore restructure closes next month, the forensic accountants will trace the Shell holdings in the Cayman accounts. We need another thirty days, Grant."
"She won't file," Grant said with absolute confidence. "I gave her a diamond bracelet and promised her a trip to St. Barts. She’s completely pacified. I’ll see you tomorrow at the Bellweather, eight o'clock."
"Love you," Julianna whispered.
"Love you too," Grant said softly.
He hung up the phone.
Natalie sat frozen in the dark, tears burning her eyes, but her heart turning into pure, unyielding tungsten steel. It wasn't just an affair. It was a pre-meditated, corporate conspiracy to bleed her out of her legal share of the estate before discarding her like trash.
Grant picked up his notebook, turned on his heel, and walked out of the study, closing the door behind him.
Under the desk, the phone screen illuminated in Natalie’s hand.
Transfer Complete. 100%.
Natalie crawled out from under the desk, standing up slowly in the dark. She unplugged the drive, took her phone, and wiped down the desk surface with her silk sleeve.
She looked at her reflection in the dark windowpane.
May you like
The scared, broken woman who had sat weeping in a hospital wheelchair six hours ago was officially dead.
"Thirty days," Natalie whispered to the empty room, her eyes gleaming in the dark. "You want thirty days, Grant? I’ll give you thirty days to destroy yourself."
