Chapter 1 - The Echo of the Kitchen
The kitchen clock ticked with an offensive, steady rhythm. I stared at the green tin of chamomile tea Thatcher had handed me just this morning, his voice smooth and solicitous when he asked if I was sleeping better. For six months, I had woken up with a heavy fog in my head, a sluggishness in my limbs that I blamed on the stress of expanding Bloom & Co. to three locations. I had seen a doctor, tried meditation apps, and increased my water intake.
Every night, Thatcher had brewed my tea.
I walked over to the trash can, lifted the lid, and let the tin slide in. It hit the bottom with a dull, heavy thud. My hand was shaking, but the panic in my chest was crystallizing into something colder and harder. If the restructuring papers were already drafted, complete with a forged signature, then this wasn't a sudden lapse in judgment or a recent affair. This was an operation with a timeline.
My phone buzzed against the marble counter.
Home yet? Traffic is finally clearing up. Love you.
The words looked entirely normal on the screen. Three years ago, I would have smiled. Tonight, looking at the timestamp, I realized how many other Wednesday evenings he had spent in that hotel corner while I sat at home nursing a drugged cup of tea, believing I was simply falling apart.
I picked up the business card Hannah had pressed into my palm at the hotel. Elena Vance — Private Investigations. Underneath was a direct cell number.
I didn't call her immediately. Instead, I went back to Thatcher's office and pulled the rest of the file from the second drawer. The restructuring agreement didn't just transfer my shares; it also mortgaged the studio’s primary commercial lease. To sign off on that loan without my knowledge required access to my corporate seal and my personal notary stamp, both of which were kept in the heavy floor safe in our master closet.
The safe required a six-digit code and a physical key. Thatcher knew the code because he had set it up with me. The key hung on a brass hook inside our bedroom armoire, hidden behind a row of winter coats I rarely wore.
When I opened the armoire, the key was gone.
I stood in the dim light of the bedroom, listening to the hum of the refrigerator downstairs. If the key wasn't where it had always been, it meant he had moved it—or he had never needed it because someone else had access. Someone who spent enough time in our home to know where everything was kept.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was an email notification from the business account.
It was a message from our corporate attorney, Julian Vance—no relation to Elena, as far as I knew—confirming receipt of the signed partnership amendment sent earlier that afternoon.
Attached was a copy of the document. I opened it on my screen, my breath catching in my throat. The signature block bore my name, written in a fluid, perfect imitation of my own hand. But beneath it, in the margins, was a tiny digital timestamp: 2:15 PM.
At 2:15 PM today, I had been standing in the studio prep room arranging white peonies for Mrs. Morrison.
May you like
And Claudine had been sitting at her desk twenty feet away, ostensibly reviewing vendor invoices.
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