Chapter 3 - The Intruder in the Library
The door creaked open, and a shadow fell across the Persian rug.
I stepped back behind the heavy velvet curtain of the bookcase, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Daniel stepped into the room, breathing heavily, his tie loosened around his collar.
He didn't look like the confident CEO he pretended to be; he looked desperate, frantic, and cornered.
He walked straight to the mahogany desk, pulled open the top drawer, and started tearing through files.
"Damn it, where is it?" he muttered under his breath, tossing folders onto the floor.
I watched from the shadows, barely daring to breathe.
Daniel wasn't just looking for corporate documents—he was looking for the same ledger I had just photographed.
He slammed the drawer shut and gripped the edges of the desk, his knuckles turning white.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and answered on the first ring.
"I told you not to call me here!" Daniel hissed into the phone.
A muffled voice spoke on the other end, too quiet for me to make out the words.
"I don't care what she wants!" Daniel shouted, pacing across the room. "If the auditors find out where that eighteen years of funding went, my entire career is finished! The company goes under, and the board will vote me out before the week is over!"
He paused, listening intently as the voice on the other end replied.
"No, I haven't talked to Olivia. She's too smart for her own good, and the youngest... God, if the youngest finds out about Apartment 4B, everything falls apart."
My chest tightened.
The youngest. Me.
Daniel hung up the phone abruptly, shoved it back into his pocket, and stormed out of the study, slamming the mahogany door behind him.
I waited a full minute before stepping out from behind the curtain.
My mind was racing.
Daniel wasn't just protecting his inheritance; he was protecting a massive corporate embezzlement scheme or a financial cover-up tied directly to those monthly payments.
Did grandmother's twenty-eight million dollar estate depend on hiding whatever happened eighteen years ago?
I looked down at my phone, staring at the photograph of the ledger page.
I needed to know who Clara Vance was, and why my grandmother had been paying her hush money for nearly two decades.
I left the study, locked the door behind me, and walked down the grand staircase.
Olivia was waiting for me in the foyer, arms crossed, leaning against the marble pillar.
"You were upstairs," she stated flatly. "Did you find anything?"
"Daniel was just up there," I said, keeping my voice low. "He's terrified. He thinks our grandmother's ledger will expose something about company funds."
Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Company funds? My investigation into his accounts showed a massive gap in corporate philanthropy spending matching those exact monthly amounts."
"It wasn't corporate philanthropy," I replied, showing her the photograph on my phone. "It was going to an individual. Clara Vance. Apartment 4B."
Olivia stared at the screen, her color draining.
"Clara Vance," she whispered. "I've heard that name before."
"When?"
"Mother mentioned it once in her sleep, years ago, right after grandmother had one of her episodes," Olivia said, her eyes wide with shock. "Mother called her a threat."
"We need to go downtown," I said, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "Tonight. Before Daniel gets to Apartment 4B."
"Are you crazy?" Olivia argued, though her voice lacked conviction. "The task says we can't tell her who we are, and we have to find out why grandmother paid her first."
"If we wait, Daniel will control the narrative," I insisted. "We leave now."
We grabbed our coats and walked out into the cold night air, heading straight into the heart of the city where the towering skyscrapers gave way to old, decaying residential complexes.
The address for Apartment 4B led us to a faded brick building with flickering neon signs and peeling paint.
The iron gate was unlocked, creaking ominously in the wind as we stepped into the dim, narrow hallway.
We climbed the concrete stairs, our footsteps echoing in the enclosed space.
Fourth floor.
May you like
We stopped in front of a heavy wooden door marked with a tarnished brass number: 4B.
I raised my hand to knock, but before my knuckles hit the wood, the door clicked and slowly swung open on its own.
