Chapter 4 - The Mistress's Bargain
At midnight, I was sitting alone in my father’s old corner office on the fifty-second floor. The city lights of San Francisco glittered beneath the fog like shattered glass. My phone buzzed on the mahogany desk, vibrating against an unread stack of legal summons.
The number was blocked.
I tapped the speaker icon. "Evelyn Vale."
A sharp, ragged intake of breath answered me. Then came the trembling voice: "Evelyn... please don't hang up."
It was Chloe Marr.
"You have five seconds before I report this call to the district attorney for witness tampering, Chloe," I said without emotion.
"Julian left me to take the fall!" she sobbed, the sound raw and stripped of the smug arrogance she had paraded through our penthouse and on her social media posts from Aspen. "His lawyers bailed him out two hours ago using his mother’s offshore trust, but they left me in the county lockup! My public defender says Julian’s team submitted signed affidavits claiming I embezzled the funds through Marr Creative LLC without his knowledge!"
A grim smile touched the corner of my lips. Julian was predictable to the end; a drowning narcissist will always push his companion underwater to keep his own head above the surface.
"And why should I care?" I said. "You were more than happy to sleep in my bed, wear the jewelry bought with my inheritance, and ignore my calls while my son’s heart stopped beating inside me. You made your bed, Chloe. Go sleep in a holding cell."
"I have the offshore routing numbers!" she shrieked desperately before I could hang up. "Evelyn, listen to me! Julian didn't keep the money in Apex Crest's accounts. He funneled eighty million of it into a shell company registered under an alias in Zurich—Julian used my mother’s maiden name as the trustee without telling me! If the feds find it, I will spend twenty years in federal prison! But if you protect me... if your lawyers get me immunity... I will give you the encrypted key."
My fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. "Where is the physical drive, Chloe?"
"In a private safe at the St. Regis residences," she whispered, her voice choking on tears. "The master bedroom closet. The code is 0-3-1-4. The date your son was due."
The sheer depravity of it hit me like a physical blow. Julian had used our unborn child’s due date as the cipher for the fortune he stole while letting that child die.
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"Stay where you are," I said, my voice dead and absolute. "My attorneys will see you in the morning. If you lie to me by even a single syllable, Chloe, I will ensure the federal prosecutors throw the key into the Pacific."
***
