Chapter 4 - The Corporate Crosshairs
Back in Chicago, three weeks after Angela’s disappearance, the boardroom of Daniels Global on the 70th floor of the Willis Tower felt like an execution chamber.
Steven stood at the head of the forty-foot obsidian conference table. He hadn't shaved in three days. Dark purple crescents shadowed his bloodshot eyes. His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie discarded over the back of his leather chair.
Across from him sat Senator Thomas Mercer and his daughter, Sloane.
“You’re losing your grip, Steven,” Senator Mercer said, his gravelly voice cutting through the hum of the climate control. The older man tapped a manicured finger against a dossier. “The regulatory committee meets in three weeks. The Department of Justice is already asking questions about stability. Rumors are spreading on Wall Street that your personal life is imploding. Your stock dropped four percent this morning.”
“My personal life is not on the agenda, Senator,” Steven replied, his voice dangerously low.
“It is when it threatens a twelve-billion-dollar infrastructure contract,” Mercer countered sharply.
Sloane leaned forward, clad in a cream Alexander McQueen pantsuit. She wore a sympathetic expression that Steven now recognized as pure, predatory performance.
“Steven, darling,” she purred softly. “We all want Angela found safe. But you cannot let Daniels Global bleed out while you chase ghost leads across the country. You’ve fired three public relations firms in twenty days. You refused to appear on CNBC on Tuesday. You look... unhinged.”
Steven turned his gaze toward her. For weeks, he had been operating in a fog of rage and panic. But looking at Sloane now, the veil was completely shredded. He remembered the night at Bellamy’s. He remembered the casual cruelty with which she had said, *“I was told the marriage was effectively over.”*
And then, a thought struck him with the clarity of a diamond blade.
Steven walked slowly toward Sloane’s side of the table. He leaned down, placing both palms flat on the wood, inches from her face.
“Who tipped off the *Chicago Sun-Times* that we were having dinner that night, Sloane?”
Her eyes widened minutely, a microscopic tell that anyone else would have missed. “What are you talking about?”
“The photographer outside Bellamy’s,” Steven whispered, his voice trembling with controlled fury. “He wasn't standing on Rush Street by accident. He had a 300mm lens aimed directly through the window at our booth. He took seventy-four shots before Angela walked through the door. And your agency’s publicist was copied on the metadata of the first leaked image.”
Senator Mercer’s face darkened. “Steven, watch yourself—”
“Shut up, Thomas,” Steven snarled, not breaking eye contact with Sloane. “You set it up. You knew Angela had an anniversary dinner planned. You suggested Bellamy’s to me three days earlier under the guise of an informal briefing. You made sure we were in that specific booth. You wanted her to see us.”
Sloane’s mask slipped. The soft, concerned socialite vanished, replaced by the calculating heiress who had stepped on a dozen rivals to claim the covers of *Vogue*.
“And what if I did?” she hissed, leaning in so her father couldn't hear. “She was an anchor around your neck, Steven! A quiet little nobody who spent her days sketching cottages and arranging flowers while you built an empire. You needed a partner who commands the world’s attention. I gave you an exit strategy!”
Steven felt a cold, terrifying sickness wash over his chest.
“She didn't take an exit strategy,” Steven whispered. “She took my soul.”
He straightened up and looked at Senator Mercer.
“The deal is off.”
The Senator rose so violently his leather chair struck the wall behind him. “Are you out of your mind? You pull out of this merger, and Daniels Global will face a shareholder revolt that will strip you of your chairmanship!”
“Then let them try,” Steven said, walking toward the door. “Mark!”
Mark opened the double doors immediately, two security officers flanking him.
“Escort Senator Mercer and Miss Mercer from the building,” Steven ordered calmly. “Revoke their security badges. If either of them steps onto Daniels Global property again, have them arrested for corporate trespassing.”
“Steven, you will regret this!” Sloane shouted, her voice echoing down the corridor as the guards stepped between them. “You will lose everything!”
Steven didn't even turn his head. He walked into his private office and slammed the door shut.
The silence that followed was deafening.
He walked behind his desk, where a cardboard box sat on the leather blotter. It contained the items Mark’s team had recovered from Angela’s private bank safe deposit box—which they had finally gained access to via court order yesterday.
There were no offshore accounts. No secret funds.
Inside the box were only three things:
Her original wedding vow card, written in her elegant cursive.
A pressed wildflower from their honeymoon in Big Sur.
And a handwritten journal spanning her five years of marriage.
Steven sat down, his hands trembling violently as he opened the leather-bound book. He turned past pages of architectural sketches, notes on gallery openings, until he reached the final entry, dated the day she disappeared.
*November 14.*
*Dr. Evans confirmed it this morning. Six weeks. Healthy heartbeat. 140 beats per minute.*
*I bought an ivory box today on Michigan Avenue. I want to see his eyes when he realizes that everything we fought through when we had nothing has led to this.*
*I pray he puts his phone down tonight. Just for an hour. I pray he remembers that the world outside doesn't love him. I do.*
Steven stopped breathing.
The words blurred before his eyes. A sharp, piercing pain flared in the center of his chest, so intense he clutched at his shirt, gasping for air.
*Dr. Evans. Healthy heartbeat. Ivory box.*
The memory of Bellamy’s exploded in his mind like a flash grenade.
Angela standing beside their booth. Her eyes cold, steady, untouchable.
*She reached into her coat pocket.*
He remembered seeing her fingers touch something small and square. He remembered thinking she was going to pull out a voice recorder or a subpoena.
*“The baby was not a weapon,”* she must have thought.
“An ivory box,” Steven choked out into the empty room.
May you like
He dropped his head onto the mahogany desk, and for the first time in his thirty-four years of life, the untouchable titan of Chicago finance wept until his lungs burned.
***
