Chapter 4 - The Predator’s Panic
"Vanesa," I said, my tone flat and devoid of any warmth. "If you wanted financial security, you probably shouldn't have targeted a man whose entire empire was built on borrowed money and stolen blueprints."
"Listen to me, Claire," Vanessa pleaded, the sound of muffled crying coming through the line. "He’s not just ruining himself—he’s blaming you. He’s already contacted a private investigator. He’s trying to dig up anything he can find on your family, your mother, your background before you met him. He thinks you set him up from day one."
"Tell him he’s a slow learner," I replied. "It only took him nine years to figure it out."
I hung up the phone before she could answer, cutting the connection with a crisp tap of my thumb against the screen.
Arthur looked at me, his eyes sharp with evaluation. "She’s right about one thing, Claire. Ryan is erratic. If he’s hiring private investigators, he’s going to start digging into your mother’s estate, which means he’ll eventually find out about the trust's initial capitalization."
"Let him look," I said, setting my coffee mug down on the table. "My mother left me clean records and a clean conscience. Ryan’s records, on the other hand... well, let's just say he forgot to shred a few key documents in his private home office before I moved out."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What kind of documents?"
I reached into my handbag resting on the chair, pulled out a thick, manila folder labeled with a simple red sticker, and tossed it onto the glass table between us.
"When Ryan packed my clothes on Friday, he gave me forty minutes," I said quietly. "He assumed I would only grab my suitcases. He didn't check the false bottom of the cedar chest in the guest bedroom—the one he thought I never used."
Arthur opened the folder, his eyes scanning the first page. As he read further down the columns, his expression shifted from casual curiosity to absolute, lethal astonishment.
"Good lord," Arthur breathed, looking up at me. "These are offshore transfer receipts routed through shell companies in the Cayman Islands. He didn't just borrow against municipal projects—he embezzled operating capital from his investors' trust funds to buy Vanessa her penthouse."
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"And that," I said, a cold smile touching my lips, "is why I didn't ask him for a single dollar in the divorce. Because why sue him for alimony when I can hand these papers directly to the federal prosecutor who happens to owe my uncle a very large favor?"
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