Chapter 2 - HIS FIRST LIE WASN’T HIS BIGGESTDad did not attack Julian.
I think Julian expected him to.
Maybe part of him wanted it.
One punch from my father would have changed the story instantly. Julian could have become the injured man defending himself against an enraged mechanic. Lawyers could reshape almost anything if you gave them enough money and one useful photograph.
Dad gave him nothing.
He simply pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling the police.”
Julian's arrogance returned immediately.
“Go ahead.”
Dad dialed.
“Already am.”
Julian looked at me.
“You really want to do this?”
I had heard that question before.
It never actually meant, Do you want to do this?
It meant:
Are you willing to suffer for disobeying me?
My hands began trembling.
Dad noticed and shifted slightly until Julian was no longer in my direct line of sight.
“Lena,” he said, “sit down.”
“I am sitting.”
“I know.”
It was such a strange answer that I nearly laughed.
Instead, I started crying.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
The tears just came.
Dad removed his suit jacket and placed it around my shoulders, covering the ripped fabric.
Julian rolled his eyes.
“For God's sake.”
Dad looked up.
“Keep talking.”
“What?”
“Every word helps.”
That shut him up.
The police arrived eleven minutes later.
An ambulance came with them.
Hart Restoration suddenly filled with red lights reflecting against chrome bumpers and glass cabinets. Officer Martinez separated Julian from us while another officer, a woman named Detective Keira Monroe, crouched beside me.
“Lena Hart?”
I nodded.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions. You can stop anytime. Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did your fiancé strike you tonight?”
Julian shouted from across the garage.
“She attacked me first!”
Officer Martinez ordered him to step back.
Detective Monroe did not even look over.
“Did he strike you?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
I closed my eyes.
“Twice.”
That was the first truth I gave police.
The second was harder.
“He grabbed me before that.”
“Where?”
“My wrist. Then my shoulders.”
She glanced at the marks.
“Did he prevent you from leaving?”
“Yes.”
Julian shouted again.
“She’s lying!”
Dad stepped forward.
Martinez raised a hand.
“Sir, stay where you are.”
Dad stopped immediately.
Detective Monroe asked, “Did you crash the vehicle?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Julian.”
That finally silenced him.
I explained as much as I could.
I had confronted Julian in Dad’s office.
We argued.
He took my phone.
I tried to leave.
He grabbed me.
When I screamed, he struck me.
Then he saw the roadster.
“He knew what it meant to my father,” I said.
Detective Monroe watched my face carefully.
“What happened next?”
“He said nobody would believe me if they saw what I'd done to Dad’s car.”
“What you'd done?”
“Yes.”
“He was already describing it as your fault?”
“Yes.”
She wrote something down.
“Then?”
“He got inside and drove it into the support pillar.”
Dad made a quiet sound behind me.
It was the first time he had reacted to the car.
Not anger.
Pain.
I turned.
“Dad, I'm sorry.”
His expression hardened.
“Never apologize to me for something somebody else did.”
Julian laughed bitterly.
“You two are unbelievable.”
Detective Monroe stood.
“Mr. Cross, I'd recommend remaining quiet.”
“My attorney will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“That's fine.”
“My father knows the chief.”
“That’s also fine.”
Julian’s mouth tightened.
The paramedics took me to St. Catherine’s.
Dad rode with me.
During the drive, he said almost nothing.
He just held my hand.
At the hospital, doctors documented the swelling around my cheek, the split lip, bruising on my wrist, and tenderness near my ribs.
No broken bones.
A mild concussion.
I should have felt lucky.
Instead, I felt ashamed that part of me still wanted to text Julian and tell him I was sorry.
That frightened me more than anything.
Dad sat beside the hospital bed until almost midnight.
Then he finally asked:
“How long?”
I stared at the blanket.
“What?”
“How long has he been hurting you?”
I could have lied.
I nearly did.
“Seven months.”
Dad closed his eyes.
His shoulders dropped.
“Seven months.”
“The first time wasn't like tonight.”
“Lena.”
“He grabbed me during an argument. Then he apologized. He sent flowers.”
Dad stood and walked toward the window.
“I've restored wrecks for thirty-five years.”
I waited.
He looked out at the parking lot.
“People bring me cars after accidents and tell me they don't know how bad the damage is. They look at the paint and think it’s fine. Then you lift the frame and find the whole structure bent.”
He turned around.
“I should have looked under the paint.”
“Dad—”
“I liked him.”
“You weren't supposed to know.”
“I should have.”
“No.”
I said it firmly.
“You don't get to make my mistake about you.”
He stared at me.
“I hid it.”
My throat tightened.
“I got very good at hiding it.”
Dad returned to the chair.
“Why?”
That question hurt.
Because there were a thousand answers.
Because Julian apologized.
Because he made me believe stress caused it.
Because he convinced me everyone thought I was too sensitive.
Because our wedding invitations had already gone out.
Because his family loved appearances.
Because I didn't want Dad to think I had failed.
Because Julian always became wonderful again right after being cruel.
“I kept thinking the man I fell in love with would come back.”
Dad’s eyes filled with tears.
“He never left.”
I looked at him.
Dad swallowed.
“The man who did this is the same man who bought you flowers afterward. That's the part I need you to understand.”
Before I could respond, Detective Monroe entered.
She held an evidence envelope.
“We photographed Mr. Cross’s hands.”
Dad leaned forward.
“And?”
“He claims his injuries happened when he struck the dashboard during the crash.”
Dad almost smiled.
“Wood dashboard. No damage.”
“We noticed.”
She pulled up a chair.
“But there's another problem with his story.”
My heart started pounding.
“What?”
“The roadster wasn't simply driven into the pillar.”
Dad frowned.
“What are you saying?”
“The preliminary marks on the floor suggest the vehicle stopped once, backed up, then accelerated again.”
I stared at her.
Julian had not told me that.
I remembered only the engine roaring.
The impact.
The sound of metal folding.
Detective Monroe continued.
“That suggests intent.”
Dad's face went pale.
But she wasn't finished.
“Also, your fiancé told us he never entered your father's office tonight.”
I looked at her.
“He did.”
“I know.”
“How?”
She placed a small clear evidence bag on the tray beside my bed.
Inside was a tiny brass key.
Dad recognized it immediately.
“That’s my archive-room key.”
“We found it in Mr. Cross’s jacket pocket.”
I stopped breathing.
The archive room held more than employee records.
It held property deeds.
Partnership agreements.
Trust documents.
And one locked filing cabinet containing everything related to Hart Restoration’s land.
Dad looked at me.
I looked at him.
Then the truth became even worse.
Julian hadn't followed me to the garage because he was angry.
He had gone there looking for something.
Detective Monroe leaned forward.
“Lena, you said you copied files from his laptop.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you put the copy?”
My stomach dropped.
I had hidden the flash drive in the one place Julian would never expect me to use.
Uncle Mateo’s roadster.
Inside the glove compartment.
I whispered, “Oh my God.”
Dad understood.
“The car.”
I nodded.
“The flash drive was inside it.”
Detective Monroe stood.
“Then nobody touches that vehicle.”
Dad was already reaching for his phone.
But twenty miles away, inside the locked garage we had just left, somebody was about to make that impossible.
At 12:14 a.m., Dad’s security company called.
May you like
Hart Restoration’s rear alarm had been triggered.
Someone had gone back.
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