Chapter Three: A Morning Intrusion

Emma’s POV

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

“Long enough.” His voice was quiet, but his expression gave nothing away. “Who was that?”

My heart skipped a beat. I locked the tablet and placed it face-down on the desk before turning to face him. “A former colleague. He was just checking that I arrived safely.”

He didn’t move. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on me, as though he were waiting for an explanation I had no intention of giving.

“And you cut him off,” he pointed out.

“I was finished talking.” I shrugged, keeping my voice even.

Will’s gaze briefly dropped to my hand before returning to my face. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“You told him you knew exactly why I married you.”

So he had heard that much?

My pulse stayed steady only because I forced it to. I stood, smoothing the front of my dress even though it didn’t need it.

“I do know,” I said. “The board vote. Larkspur terminal. Stable image. I’m not stupid, Will.”

Something shifted in his eyes, perhaps approval, or a quiet acknowledgment that I had been the first to strip away the pretense between us. He stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“I see,” he said. “Then we don’t have to pretend this is anything else.”

He moved towards the window, leaving me standing by the desk with the tablet still within reach. The name of the locked folder remained burned into my mind.

Winston Transfer – Restricted. Fourteen months.

“Dana gave you the full walkthrough?” Will asked, his back still turned to me.

“She did.”

“Any questions about the access?”

“Only the obvious one. Why give me household archive rights at all if the interesting folders are locked?”

He turned to face me, a faint smile threatening to tug at the corner of his mouth before he quickly suppressed it. It was the same almost-smile I’d noticed in the ceremony room.

“Because the board likes the appearance of transparency in a marriage. And because I don’t keep secrets from the people living under my roof.” He paused. “Within reason.”

“Within reason,” I repeated.

He studied me for another long moment. “Dinner is at eight. The staff will leave after. I eat in the smaller dining room. You’re welcome to join me or take trays in your suite. Either is fine.”

“I’ll eat alone tonight.”

He gave a single nod, as though my answer had confirmed what he already suspected. He turned towards the door, but paused with his hand resting on the handle.

“Emma.”

I looked up.

“Whatever you’re looking for in those files,” he said quietly, “I hope you find it. Just don’t trip any alarms along the way. Dana takes her job seriously.”

Before I could respond, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

I stood in the study for a full minute after he left, listening to the silence settle. Then I unlocked the tablet again and opened the household archive once more. I scrolled past the property records, the trust summaries, the carefully curated correspondence from Richard Hammer’s era. The grayed-out folder sat exactly where I had left it.

I did not try to open it. Not yet.

Instead I photographed the index page with my phone, stored the image in an encrypted folder Julian had set up years ago, and deleted the camera roll entry. Old habits. Careful habits. The kind that had kept me alive this long.

At seven-forty I walked the length of the main hallway to the east suite. The door opened under my thumbprint. The room was larger than my entire apartment in Larkspur had been—pale walls, a wide bed that looked untouched, a desk facing the water, a bathroom with more products than I would ever use. My single suitcase sat on the luggage rack, already emptied by housekeeping. Clothes hung in the closet. Toiletries lined the counter. Someone had even folded my second-hand ivory dress and placed it in a garment bag.

I changed into soft black pants and a sweater, washed my face, and sat on the edge of the bed with my phone.

Julian had texted three times since the call.

You cut me off.
 Emma.
 Answer.

I typed back: He overheard part of it. I’m fine. Folder is locked. Restricted label confirmed. Will talk tomorrow.

He replied almost immediately. Be careful.

I didn’t answer.

At eight-fifteen I walked barefoot to the kitchen. The lights were low. A single place setting waited on the island—grilled fish, greens, a glass of water. No note. No invitation. Just food left out as if the staff had known I would eventually appear.

I ate by the window, watching Ridgeway glitter in the distance. When I finished, i rinsed the plate, left it in the sink, and returned to the east suite.

I opened the tablet one last time and began mapping every folder I could reach. Property deeds. Old board minutes. Correspondence that never once mentioned Winston Marine. Notes went into the same cipher I had used for years. Slow. Methodical. Safe.

Sometime after midnight I closed the tablet, set it on the nightstand, and lay down fully dressed on top of the covers.

Sleep came hard and late.

……………….

I woke to the sound of pages turning.

Morning light cut across the room in a thin, sharp line. My head felt heavy. For a second I thought I was still dreaming.

Then I saw him.

Will sat in the low chair near the foot of the bed, one ankle crossed over the other, my tablet open in his hands. He was reading. Calmly. Quietly. As if he belonged there.

My phone lay on the small table beside him, face up, the screen still lit from a recent notification.

I sat up slowly, pulse loud in my ears.

He didn’t look up right away. When he finally did, his expression was unreadable.

What exactly is he doing with my phone and the tablet?

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