Chapter 5 - THE MIDNIGHT GHOST HUNT IN LOWER MANHATTAN
The engagement party at the Whitmore Grand was in absolute chaos. By 9:00 PM, rumors of the cancelled engagement had rippled through the ballroom like wildfire, sending reporters scrambling to the lobby and corporate investors whispering into their smartphones.
Up in suite 1204, Leo had finally drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep, tucked safely into the crib. Ethan and I sat across from each other at the small mahogany desk, the laptop glow illuminating our faces in the darkened room.
“Marcus’s bank records won't be easy to access legally on a Sunday night,” Ethan said, his fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced speed, bypassing standard firewalls with the skill of a tech billionaire who started his career writing code. “But personal wire transfers leave digital footprints. If Richard Hayes bought him off, the money had to come through an offshore shell corporation.”
“Can you track it?” I asked, leaning in close, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and expensive cedar—bringing back a sudden, sharp wave of memories from our apartment before everything fell apart.
“Already did,” Ethan said, pressing Enter with a sharp click. A complex spreadsheet of international transactions popped up on the screen, detailing a multi-million-dollar wire transfer executed thirty months ago, dated precisely three days after I received the forged letter.
“Look at the sender,” Ethan pointed at a highlighted row. “A shell company registered in the Cayman Islands called Veritas Holdings. And look at the ultimate beneficiary.”
“Marcus Vance,” I read aloud, my eyes widening. “Six million dollars wired directly to his personal account in Zurich, with a secondary payment scheduled for every year he stayed silent.”
Ethan leaned back in his leather chair, his jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. “Richard Hayes thought he covered his tracks by using a shell company, but Veritas shares a registered agent with three of Hayes’s primary real estate holdings in downtown Manhattan.”
“So we have the proof of bribery,” I said, looking at him. “What’s our next move? Do we go to the police?”
“The police move too slowly, and corporate lawyers will stall them for years with injunctions and privacy writs,” Ethan said, his green eyes glinting with a dangerous spark. “We don’t just need to prove he bribed Marcus. We need a full confession. From Marcus himself.”
“In Palm Beach?” I asked skeptically. “That’s a thousand miles away, and it’s almost midnight.”
“Private jet is already fueled and waiting at Teterboro,” Ethan said smoothly, standing up and pulling his suit jacket back on. “My pilot is on standby. We’re flying down tonight.”
I stared at him, stunned. “We? As in... me and Leo?”
“I am not leaving you or my son out of my sight for a single second ever again,” Ethan said, his tone absolute, leaving zero room for argument. “My security team is already downstairs clearing the private exit to bypass the reporters. We have a car waiting outside.”
Twenty minutes later, we were bundled into the back of a black armored SUV, speeding through the glittering streets of Manhattan toward the private aviation terminal. Leo slept soundly in my arms, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, completely oblivious to the fact that his parents were embarking on a midnight crusade for justice.
The private jet was a marvel of modern luxury—spacious, quiet, and equipped with a private cabin where I could lay Leo down safely on a plush leather lounge.
As the jet taxied down the runway and lifted off into the dark night sky, Ethan walked back from the cockpit, sitting down on the seat directly across from me. The cabin lights were dimmed, casting a soft, amber glow over his tired face.
“Sarah,” he began softly, his voice barely audible over the low hum of the jet engines. “I am so sorry. For every single day you spent alone. For every tear you cried while I was sitting in a boardroom three miles away, thinking you had abandoned me.”
I looked at him, feeling the heavy knot in my chest begin to loosen for the first time in two and a half years.
“I thought you didn't care, Ethan,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “When I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to call you so badly. But I remembered the letter. I thought the billionaire playboy just got tired of the ordinary girl from Brooklyn.”
Ethan reached across the narrow gap between our seats, his warm fingers gently closing over my hand. His skin was rougher than I remembered, calloused from years of working late nights and fighting corporate wars, but his touch was as tender as it had been the first day we met.
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“I was never playing, Sarah,” he whispered, squeezing my hand gently. “From the moment I met you, you were my entire world. And now... now we have Leo.”
He looked over at the sleeping toddler, a soft, wondrous smile breaking across his face—a smile that chased away the ghost of the arrogant executive and revealed the father underneath.
