Chapter 4 - The Husband Who Studied MeThe first surveillance report was from when I was six.
A photograph of me in a yellow raincoat, standing outside a public elementary school, holding Marianne’s hand. The report noted my height, my routine, my teacher’s name, and the color of Marianne’s car.
Subject appears healthy. Guardian remains unaware of active observation.
I read the sentence three times.
Then another report from when I was eleven.
Subject excels in mathematics. Possible inherited aptitude from E. Voss.
At sixteen.
Subject wins state debate championship. Avoid direct contact. Risk of suspicion high.
At twenty-two.
Subject accepted at Columbia Law. Recommend long-range strategy adjustment.
At twenty-six.
Subject joins Harlow & Peake. Firm has Blackwood Global as secondary client. Opportunity window opening.
My skin crawled.
Grant had not stumbled into my life at a charity auction.
He had arrived on schedule.
I remembered that night with unbearable clarity. I had been wearing a black dress borrowed from a friend, standing near a window because I hated networking. Grant had approached with two glasses of champagne and said, “You look like the only honest person in this room.”
I had laughed.
God help me, I had laughed.
Now I stood in the hidden cellar of his family home, reading the file that proved he had known exactly where to find me.
“You practiced,” I said.
Grant leaned against the doorway like boredom could still protect him.
“What?”
“The things you said. The books you claimed to love. The way you acted surprised when I said I hated roses because my aunt grew them after my mother died.”
His eyes flickered.
“You read that in a report.”
He did not deny it.
I closed the folder.
“You built a husband out of my grief.”
Helena made a small sound of disgust.
“How dramatic.”
I looked at her.
“Did you choose him, or did he volunteer?”
Grant answered before she could.
“I volunteered.”
That hurt more than I wanted it to.
Not because I loved him still.
Because once, I had believed he loved me first.
Agent Pike asked the question I could not.
“Why marry her if you already had access to the Voss archive?”
Grant smiled thinly.
“Because access isn’t ownership.”
Arthur’s voice suddenly came from my phone, still connected, forgotten in my hand.
“He needed your consent.”
Everyone turned toward the screen.
Arthur continued, “Celeste, I found the draft agreement. They prepared a spousal ratification package. Once you signed, they could retroactively validate the 1989 transfer and bury any Voss claim forever.”
My stomach dropped.
“I signed papers last month.”
Grant’s eyes lit with cruel amusement.
“Yes. You did.”
Arthur said sharply, “Not the right ones.”
Grant’s smile faltered.
“What?”
Arthur’s voice steadied. “She amended the language before signing. I flagged it at the time. She limited consent to marital estate disclosures only. No ancestral asset ratification. No historical claims waiver.”
For the first time that night, I almost smiled.
Grant stared at me.
“You changed the documents?”
“You handed a corporate attorney paperwork and expected her not to read it.”
Agent Pike actually looked amused.
Helena hissed, “You stupid boy.”
Grant spun toward her.
“Don’t.”
But the damage was done.
The Blackwoods had planned for my ignorance.
They had not planned for my profession.
Pike lifted another file.
“There is still the issue of the missing $63.4 million.”
Helena’s eyes slid toward Grant.
Grant noticed.
So did I.
He said, “Mother.”
She did not answer.
Arthur spoke again.
“Celeste, I found the destination bank.”
“Where?”
“Zurich.”
Grant frowned.
Helena went very still.
Arthur continued.
“The account is not under Grant’s name.”
I looked at Helena.
For the first time, she looked old.
“Then whose?” I asked.
Arthur said, “Helena Blackwood’s maiden name.”
Grant’s face went slack.
May you like
The empire was not only stolen.
It was being stolen again.
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