Chapter 2 - The Audit of Shadows
By six o’clock the following morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a sky the color of bruised slate. The house was deathly quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of porcelain coming from the kitchen.
I sat at the breakfast table in the morning room, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal pantsuit, drinking black coffee. On the table lay an open laptop displaying the real-time financial telemetry of Harrison’s personal and corporate accounts. Next to it sat three manila folders delivered twenty minutes prior by Arthur’s private courier.
Upstairs, the sound of an alarm began to beep incessantly, followed by the muffled thud of someone falling out of bed.
Ten minutes later, the tranquility shattered.
Harrison stormed down the marble hallway, wearing an unbuttoned dress shirt and slacks, barefoot, holding his smartphone to his ear with white-knuckled fury.
"What do you mean, 'declined due to administrative hold'?!" he roared into the phone. "I’m the COO! Call Marcus in treasury right now! This is an outrage—"
He stopped dead in the doorway of the morning room.
I took a slow sip of my coffee and turned the page of the financial summary.
"Good morning, Harrison," I said without looking up. "Did you sleep well in the guest suite? Mrs. Bell informed me that Miss Parker found the four-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton 'scratchy.' I’m terribly sorry. We usually reserve the guest wing for company with manners."
Harrison lowered the phone, his chest heaving. "What did you do, Clara? My black card was rejected when I tried to pay for Sloane’s prenatal concierge service this morning. My access credentials for the Ashford Capital server are returning an error code. Did you call IT?"
"I didn't have to," I replied smoothly, tapping the trackpad on my laptop. "The board of trustees executed an automated freeze at midnight pursuant to Section 14, Subsection C. When a senior executive is formally accused of embezzling corporate discretionary funds for non-business assets, their clearance is suspended pending an independent audit."
Harrison’s throat bobbed. "Embezzling? What the hell are you talking about?! I haven't embezzled a single dime!"
"Oh?" I lifted the first manila folder. "Then perhaps you can explain the seventy-five-thousand-dollar wire transfer sent three weeks ago to a luxury leasing agency in SoHo for a penthouse apartment under the name of 'Parker Media LLC'?"
Harrison’s eyes darted toward the hallway, where the faint sound of Sloane’s slippers could be heard approaching.
"That was... that was a corporate hospitality lease," he stammered, lowering his voice to a desperate hiss. "For visiting clients from London!"
"Visiting clients who require custom nursery furniture and monogrammed diaper bags?" I pulled a glossy invoice from the folder and slid it across the table. "You used Ashford Capital’s emergency operational reserve to pay six months of rent upfront for your mistress. And you billed the interior design deposit under 'Logistics and Strategic Planning.' That isn't just a breach of contract, Harrison. That is wire fraud."
Before he could answer, Sloane sauntered into the room. She was wearing one of my mother’s silk dressing gowns—a vintage emerald robe with gold embroidery that Vivian had purchased in Florence. She had found it in the master wardrobe.
When I saw that robe on her, something inside me went dead and cold.
"Harrison, babe," Sloane complained, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "There’s no fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice in the fridge. I told that old woman with the silver hair—what’s her name, Mrs. Bell?—to get some, and she just stared at me. You need to fire her today. Her attitude is completely unacceptable."
Mrs. Bell, who was standing just outside the pantry door with a silver tray of toast, did not flinch. Her expression was impassive, but her jaw was clenched tight.
I set my coffee cup down with a sharp, clear ring against the saucer.
"Take that robe off," I said.
Sloane paused, looking down at the silk, then smirked. "Excuse me? It was just hanging in the closet. Harrison said anything in this house is mine now. Besides, it looks much better on someone thirty years younger."
I stood up. I am tall, and in three-inch heels, I towered over Sloane Parker. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
"I will not repeat myself," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, vibrating with an authority that had commanded boardroom votes since I was twenty-two years old. "You have thirty seconds to remove my dead mother’s robe from your body, or I will have private security physically peel it off you, and I will press charges for grand larceny before the clock strikes seven."
Sloane took a hasty step back, her smirk slipping as she looked to Harrison for support. "Harrison! Are you going to let her speak to the mother of your child like that?!"
Harrison was sweating now. The arrogance that had sustained him for months was rapidly crumbling under the weight of the financial documents spread across the mahogany table. "Sloane... please. Just... go upstairs and change."
"What?!" Sloane screeched. "You're letting her bully me?! You promised me this house! You promised me we’d be running Ashford Capital together by next month!"
"Harrison promised you a kingdom he never owned," I said, walking toward her. Sloane backed away until her spine hit the doorframe. "He is an employee, Miss Parker. An employee who entered into an ironclad marriage contract that strips him of every stock option, every bonus, and every cent the moment he violates the moral turpitude clause. He doesn’t own the car he drove here in. He doesn’t own the suit he’s wearing. And he certainly doesn’t own the roof over your head."
Sloane turned white, her manicured fingers clawing at the collar of the silk robe. "You’re lying. Harrison told me the trust belongs to him!"
"Harrison lied to you because he wanted a young, pretty accessory who was gullible enough to stroke his ego," I said ruthlessly. "And you were so greedy to play lady of the manor that you didn't even bother to check the public county property deeds. Ashford House is owned by the Vivian Ashford Irrevocable Trust. And I am the sole trustee."
I turned to Mrs. Bell. "Mrs. Bell, please call the front gate. If Miss Parker is not dressed in her own clothes and off these premises within the hour, have the guard station escort her out to the curb."
"You can't do that!" Harrison yelled, grabbing my arm. "She’s carrying an Ashford!"
I looked down at his hand gripping my sleeve. I didn't pull away. I just stared at his fingers with such disgust that he recoiled as if burned.
"Is she?" I asked softly, tilting my head. "Because according to the calendar from your so-called Hamptons retreat, Harrison, you were in Singapore for board negotiations during the second week of December. Yet that ultrasound Miss Parker so proudly waved in my mother’s face is dated precisely twelve weeks along."
Harrison blinked, his brow furrowing as the mental math slowly started ticking behind his eyes.
Beside him, Sloane’s face drained of every remaining drop of color. She dropped her gaze, her hands fluttering nervously over her stomach.
"I... the doctor said the dates can vary by a few weeks..." Sloane stammered, her voice suddenly thin, lacking all its former venom. "Ultrasounds aren't exact!"
"Oh, but DNA tests are," I smiled, feeling the predator awaken fully within me. "And we are going to have one. Aren't we, Harrison?"
Harrison looked from me to Sloane. For the first time, a shadow of horrific, sickening doubt crossed his features.
"Sloane?" Harrison whispered, his voice cracking. "What is she talking about?"
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Sloane didn't answer. She spun on her heel and fled down the hallway, the stolen green silk robe billowing behind her like a tattered flag of surrender.
***
