Chapter 4 - The Diner Booth
The Blue Spruce Diner smelled of frying bacon and maple syrup, a comforting, ordinary smell that felt entirely disconnected from the dangerous orbit of Damian Ashford.
Marcus sat in a corner booth near the back, wearing a wool overcoat that had a light dusting of sleet on the shoulders. He looked older than he had in Manhattan, the lines around his eyes deeper, his silver-streaked hair slightly ruffled by the northern wind.
I slid into the vinyl booth opposite him, keeping my eyes fixed on his face. Sophie sat beside me, her small hands wrapped around a cup of warm apple cider I had ordered for her, her gaze darting curiously around the retro diner.
"You look tired, Marcus," I said, breaking the silence before he could speak.
"Age catches up with all of us, Evelyn, especially when our employers operate under the impression that they're immortal," Marcus replied, offering a faint, tired smile. He signaled the waitress for a refill on his black coffee, then looked across the table at me. "Damian hasn't slept in thirty-six hours. The penthouse is a tomb. He hasn't broken anything, which, if you know him, is actually the most concerning part. When Damian gets loud, he's angry. When he's quiet like this, he's calculating."
"Let him calculate," I said, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug. "I didn't leave because I wanted a reaction. I left because I'm done being an ornament in his collection."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment, watching the steam rise from his cup. "You think you were an ornament?"
"Wasn't I?" I challenged, my voice dropping an octave. "I was the beautiful, cultured wife who hosted his charity dinners, smiled at his political allies, and kept our daughter out of the line of fire while he built an empire on things he refuses to talk about at the dinner table."
"You were the only person in his life who didn't lie to him," Marcus corrected softly. He reached into his leather briefcase resting on the floor and pulled out a manila envelope, sliding it across the worn laminate table toward me. "And that's why he trusted you with things he wouldn't tell his own board of directors."
I didn't touch the envelope. "What is this?"
"Insurance," Marcus said simply. "Not against you. Against the people who are currently trying to tear Damian's world down from the inside. Over the past six months, someone within Damian's inner circle has been leaking corporate restructuring plans to the federal prosecutor's office in Brooklyn. They're trying to build a racketeering case against him—not for violence, but for financial routing."
I stared at the manila envelope, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. "What does that have to do with me?"
May you like
"Because," Marcus looked me dead in the eye, "the proxy accounts used to funnel the questionable capital acquisitions were registered under an LLC created five years ago, using your maiden name, with a digital signature that matches yours."
---
