Chapter 8 - The Ghost from Brooklyn: Uncovering the Landlord’s Betrayal
By late afternoon, the tension inside the Upper East Side townhouse was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Chase was locked in his private office taking secure encrypted calls from international partners, while I sat in the sunlit library, staring out at the courtyard gardens below, trying to calm the persistent flutter of anxiety in my chest.
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany library door swung open.
Mrs. Gable stood in the entryway, her face unusually pale, holding a small silver tray with a single, handwritten envelope resting on top of it.
“Miss Evans,” Mrs. Gable said cautiously.
“This just arrived via special courier at the rear service gate. The courier insisted it be handed directly to you.”
I stood up slowly from the velvet armchair, walking across the Persian rug.
“To me?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
“Nobody knows I’m here except Chase, Julian, and your security team.”
I picked up the envelope.
There was no return address. Just my name—Claire Evans—written in messy, hurried ballpoint pen.
My fingers trembled as I tore open the flap and pulled out a single sheet of cheap lined paper.
‘Miss Evans,’ the note read.
‘I know who you’re hiding with. And I know why you skipped out on your lease in Brooklyn. The Feds are offering a very nice payout for information on Chase Rowe’s secret domestic arrangements. If you don’t want your cozy little billionaire hideout plastered across every front page in the city by tomorrow morning, meet me at the coffee shop on 86th and Lexington in one hour. Come alone.’
At the bottom of the note was a signature that made my blood run cold.
Mr. Henderson.
My former landlord in Brooklyn.
The man I had paid in cash to keep my name off the lease.
“Is everything alright, Miss Evans?” Mrs. Gable asked, noticing the color drain from my face.
“I… I need to speak to Chase immediately,” I stammered, turning toward the door.
“No, you don’t,” a deep, commanding voice echoed from the hallway.
Chase stepped into the library, his dark suit jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his eyes locked onto the piece of paper in my hand.
Julian must have briefed him on the security breach before leaving.
“Chase, my landlord found me,” I said, holding out the note with a shaking hand.
“He’s going to go to the press. He’s going to go to Vance’s investigators—”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Chase interrupted, crossing the room in two long strides and taking the note from my fingers.
He read it once, his jaw tightening into a rigid line of pure, unadulterated fury.
“Get your coat, Claire,” Chase ordered quietly.
“Where are we going?”
May you like
“Eighty-sixth and Lexington,” Chase replied, his dark eyes burning with a terrifying, predatory calm.
“It’s time we pay Mr. Henderson a visit.”
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