Chapter 3 - The Second Ledger
The gravel crunched beneath our shoes as we walked up the grand stone steps of the Greenwich house. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves, thick with the melancholy of a place abandoned to time and deceit.
Gabriel pushed the heavy front door open with a gentle shove. It yielded with a low, metallic groan, the deadbolt having been picked or bypassed entirely.
Inside, the foyer was coated in a fine layer of dust, moonlight cutting through the tall arched windows to cast long, skeletal shadows across the marble floor.
"Stay behind me," Gabriel whispered, his hand sliding inside his jacket.
"I grew up in this house, Gabriel. I know every creak in these floors," I whispered back, though I stayed close to his shoulder as we climbed the sweeping staircase toward the second-floor study.
The door to my father’s study stood half-open. A sliver of warm lamplight spilled out onto the dark Persian rug.
We crept forward, stopping just outside the threshold.
Inside, the room was a disaster. Books had been pulled haphazardly from the mahogany shelves, their pages fluttering in the draft from an open window. In the corner, the heavy iron safe—the one Julian had sworn was empty—stood wide open, its thick steel door swinging gently on its hinges.
Sitting at my father’s walnut desk, surrounded by stacks of yellowed paper, was Dalia Fontaine.
She didn't look like a high-society darling now. Her silver gown was stained with dust at the hem, her hair coming loose from its elaborate pins, and her hands were smudged with black graphite as she frantically flipped through a thick, leather-bound ledger.
"Looking for something, Dalia?" I asked.
Dalia shrieked, dropping the ledger onto the floor with a heavy thud. She spun around in the swivel chair, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with panic.
When she saw it was just me—and Gabriel standing tall behind me—the terror on her face morphed into a bitter, snarling sneer.
"You," she breathed, standing up and smoothing her ruined dress with trembling hands. "You have no idea what you've walked into."
"Enlighten us," Gabriel said coldly, stepping into the room and blocking the doorway. "Because as far as I can tell, you’re trespassing in a house that now belongs to the woman you’ve spent the last two years slandering."
Dalia let out a harsh, hysterical laugh. "Belonging to her? Khloe doesn't own anything. Julian owns this house. He owns the patents, he owns the shell companies, he owns the—"
"Julian lost his shares about forty minutes ago," I interrupted, stepping past Gabriel into the room. My eyes scanned the scattered papers on the desk. "And as of right now, every asset registered under Duval Development belongs to the Sterling Trust. Which means you are standing in my house, Dalia, holding stolen property."
Dalia’s gaze darted to the heavy ledger lying on the Persian rug. She lunged for it, but Gabriel was faster, scooping it off the floor before her fingers could brush the leather.
"Give that back!" Dalia screamed, taking a desperate step toward him. "You don't know what's in there! If that gets out, Julian is finished—and he won't go down alone. He'll drag every single one of us into the dirt!"
Gabriel held the ledger up out of her reach, flipping open the cover. His eyes scanned the first page, and the color slowly drained from his face.
"What is it?" I asked, my heart hammering.
Gabriel didn't answer right away. He looked up from the page, his eyes meeting mine with a mixture of shock and profound sorrow.
"It’s not a patent ledger, Khloe," Gabriel said quietly. "It’s a financial audit. Your father didn't go bankrupt."
"What are you talking about?" I stepped closer, peering over his shoulder.
Written in my father’s meticulous, familiar handwriting were rows of figures, bank routing numbers, and corporate wire transfers dating back to the year before he died.
"Your father’s company was profitable," Gabriel said, his voice tightening. "Extremely profitable. But every dollar of revenue wasn't going into corporate accounts. It was being funneled into a private holding account managed by a third party."
I stared at the name written at the bottom of the column, circled twice in red ink.
Duval & Associates.
Julian’s personal firm. The company he had run before he married me.
"Julian didn't just take over my father’s business after he died," I whispered, the horrifying truth finally snapping into place. "He engineered the bankruptcy while my father was sick. He stole the company before my father drew his last breath."
Dalia let out a ragged breath, leaning against the edge of the desk for support. Her defiance had completely evaporated, replaced by a cold, desperate resignation.
"He didn't just steal the company, Khloe," Dalia whispered, her voice shaking. "He needed your father out of the way to close the venture capital deal that bought us our entire lifestyle. And he knew the only person who could stop him was you—if you ever bothered to look at the real paperwork."
She looked straight at my stomach, a dark, bitter smile twisting her lips.
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"And that baby?" Dalia laughed softly, the sound hollow and broken. "That’s not the only secret Julian kept from you. Ask him about the night your father died. Ask him why he was late getting to the hospital."
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