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Chapter 4
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2026-03-03 20:57:20Eliza's POV
The words on Adam’s phone burned behind my eyes even after the screen went black: “She took the bait. Moving to Phase 2.” Chloe’s name above them. My finger hovered, wanting to swipe it open, read everything, see how deep the lie went. But I didn’t. I left the phone exactly where it was. If I touched it, he would know. If I ran, they would find me faster.
I stayed.
I locked the door like he told me. Sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the spare room. Stared at the wall until the city lights outside turned gray with morning. Rage still simmered in my chest, but now it had teeth. I wasn’t going to break again. I was going to bite back.
When Adam returned at seven sharp with a leather folder and two paper cups of coffee, I was already dressed. Hair pulled back. Face clean. Eyes steady.
He noticed the change. One eyebrow lifted slightly. “You’re ready.”
“I memorized the old server credentials,” I said. “Dad made me repeat them every birthday until I was twenty-five. He said emergencies don’t wait for passwords.”
Adam set the coffee down. “Good. We need everything. Financial trails. Board minutes. Emails. Anything that shows intent.”
I nodded. Took the burner laptop he handed me. Logged into the hidden admin portal Dad built years ago—backdoor access nobody knew about except family. The screen flickered. Folders opened like old wounds.
I started downloading. Years of data streamed in. Contracts. Audits. Transfers. My hands moved fast. No hesitation.
Adam watched from across the room. Silent. He didn’t push. He just waited.
Hours passed. Coffee grew cold. My eyes burned from the screen. Then I found it.
Not proof against Adam.
Something worse.
A medical file. Timestamped four years ago. Our first fertility consult. Scott’s name on the submission form. But the results weren’t mine. The hormone levels, the ultrasound notes, the doctor’s summary—they all pointed to me as the problem. Low ovarian reserve. Poor egg quality. “Patient advised to consider donor options.”
I knew those numbers weren’t real.
Because six months earlier I had my own private tests done. Perfect counts. Perfect everything. The doctor told me the issue—if there was one—was likely male factor. I never told Scott. I wanted to protect him. I took the blame quietly.
He had switched the reports. Paid someone. Made sure every doctor we saw after that saw the same lie.
He didn’t just prevent a baby. He made me believe my body failed us. Made me carry that shame alone.
My hands shook so hard the laptop slid. I caught it before it hit the floor.
Adam looked over. “What?”
I turned the screen toward him. Let him read.
His jaw tightened. “He planned this long.”
“Longer than the money,” I whispered. “Longer than Chloe.”
Adam didn’t offer comfort. He just said, “Use it.”
I did.
His lawyer—a thin woman named Mara with sharp eyes and sharper questions—came that afternoon. We filed the emergency injunction remotely. Evidence of financial siphoning. Breach of fiduciary duty. Fraud. The court moved fast because the merger announcement was hours away. By four p.m. the freeze order hit. Scott’s hands were tied. No closing. No sale. Not yet.
The news broke on every business channel.
I watched on the laptop in the apartment. Live feed from the press conference downtown. Scott stood at the podium in his navy suit. Hair perfect. Smile practiced.
Then the reporter asked about the injunction.
His face changed.
The mask cracked. Eyes widened. Mouth opened, closed. He gripped the podium too hard. Knuckles white. “This is… unexpected,” he said. Voice thin. “We’re reviewing the claims. Sterling Global remains strong.”
But the fury was there. Real. Raw. He looked like a man watching his house burn.
I felt nothing soft. Only cold satisfaction.
That night the doorbell rang. Soft at first. Then harder. Pounding.
Adam had left for a meeting. I was alone.
I checked the peephole.
Scott.
Unshaven. Tie loose. Eyes red. He looked smaller than I had ever seen him.
I opened the door just enough for the chain to catch.
“Eliza,” he said. Voice rough. “Please. Let me in.”
I stared at him.
He swallowed. “I know what you think you know. But it’s not… I was drowning. Your father’s shadow was everywhere. The board. The expectations. I felt like I was disappearing. Chloe—she got in my head. She manipulated me. It meant nothing. I swear.”
He stepped closer. The chain rattled.
“The baby,” he went on. “I was scared. Terrified. If we had a child, everything would change. The company. The shares. The control. I panicked. I did things I can’t take back. But I love you. I always did. Please. Give me a chance to fix this.”
He reached through the gap. Fingers brushed my arm.
For one second—just one—I remembered. The way he laughed at my bad jokes. The night he proposed on the rooftop with city lights below. The way he held me after Dad’s funeral like I was the only thing keeping him upright.
My throat tightened.
Then my eyes drifted past him. To the window across the street.
A figure stood under a streetlamp. Hood up. But I knew the posture. The way she tilted her head.
Chloe.
She wasn’t watching Scott. She was looking straight at me. At this window.
She lifted her phone. The screen faced me. Large white letters on black background.
“ASK HIM ABOUT THE ACCIDENT.”
My blood stopped.
The accident.
Five years ago. Rainy night. Scott’s car hydroplaned. Spun into the guardrail. I was driving behind him. I saw it happen. I pulled over. Ran to his car. He was bleeding, dazed. I dragged him out before the other lane hit us. Held pressure on the cut until the ambulance came. The police report said I saved his life. The papers called me a hero. Scott proposed three months later. Said he owed me everything.
I never questioned it.
Until now.
Chloe lowered the phone. Smiled. Then stepped back into the shadows.
Scott was still talking. Pleading. “Eliza, please—”
I looked at him.
The history. The love. The hesitation.
It died right there.
I stepped back.
Closed the door.
Locked it.
Listened to him knock. Beg. Curse.
Then silence.
I walked to the window. Looked down at the empty street.
Chloe was gone.
But the question stayed.
What accident?
What really happened that night?
And how much more had Scott buried?
Pinakabagong kabanata
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