Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Ledger
I stared at the phone screen until the light flickered and went dark.
The name on the screen—the photograph of a man I had never seen before, linked to a fire that had nearly destroyed Adrian’s business empire five years ago—seemed to pulse with malicious intent.
Adrian was still standing across from me, his eyes sharp, tracking the sudden change in my posture. He saw the color drain from my face.
“What is it?” he demanded, stepping closer.
Instead of handing him the phone, I locked the screen and slipped it into my pocket. The sudden rush of defensiveness surprised me; for years, we had shared everything, or so I had believed. But after hearing what he said at the Bellmont, and after seeing the cold calculation in his eyes just moments ago, an instinct I didn't know I possessed told me to hold something back.
“Nothing,” I lied, my voice shaking slightly. “Just a spam message.”
Adrian didn’t believe me. He could smell a lie the way a seasoned investigator smelled smoke. He reached out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist—not violently, but with an unyielding firmness born of habit.
“Show me the phone, Claire.”
“No.” I pulled my arm back, stepping away from him toward the sunlit window. “You don't get to demand transparency from me when you spend your life hiding behind locked doors and business secrets, Adrian. You don't get to walk in here and police my messages.”
He exhaled a long, frustrated breath, running a hand through his dark hair. The anger in his posture ebbed away, replaced by something much heavier—exhaustion.
“You think I keep secrets to shut you out,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “You think I enjoy keeping the rough edges of my life away from you because I don’t trust you.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because once you look into the dark parts of the Romano family history, you can’t unsee them,” he said, looking out the tall window toward the grey Manhattan skyline. “My father didn’t build this company on clean loans and handshake agreements, Claire. There were enemies. There were debts that were never written down in books.”
“The fire on Eleventh Avenue,” I whispered, testing the words.
Adrian froze.
The silence that followed was absolute. The rattling radiator seemed to quiet down, leaving only the sound of distant traffic two floors below. Adrian turned his head slowly, his gray-blue eyes narrowing into cold, sharp points.
“What did you say?”
“The fire,” I repeated, holding my ground. “When we first met. You told me it was an accident caused by faulty wiring in the municipal grid. You stayed up for three days straight drinking black coffee, and you told me not to worry about it.”
“It was faulty wiring,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual absolute conviction. A fraction of a second too late.
“Why would someone send a picture of your father and that fire today?” I asked, finally pulling out the phone and placing it face-up on the wooden table between us.
Adrian stared at the screen. He didn't pick it up, but I saw the muscle in his jaw jump.
For the first time since I had known him, my husband looked cornered. Not by a business rival, not by a hostile board of directors, but by the past he had carefully buried beneath millions of dollars and an immaculate public reputation.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“It was sent to me, Adrian. To my phone. Which means whoever is watching us doesn't just want to hurt your business—they know where to find me.”
He looked up from the phone, meeting my eyes with a look of fierce, terrifying protectiveness. All the distance between us vanished in an instant.
May you like
“Pack your things,” he said, his tone turning clinical and commanding. “You’re coming home. And until I find out who sent this, you aren't stepping foot outside that house alone.”
---
