CHAPTER 16

ANNA POV

“Where are the 2019 ledgers?” I whisper to myself, sliding another heavy metal drawer open in the sub-basement archive of Voss International.

The fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker with a low, annoying hum. I’m deep beneath the main tower, surrounding myself with dusty banker boxes and cold concrete walls. I’m looking for the physical paper trail connecting my father, Richard, to Victor Kane—the paper records Richard assumed were shredded five years ago.

My fingers stop on a thick black leather portfolio tucked behind a stack of corporate tax audits.

I pull it out into the dim light. Printed across the front cover in silver foil is a single label: J. Morrison—Asset Assessment.

Jack Morrison. My ex-fiancé.

My heart hammers wildly against my ribs as I flip the heavy binder open.

Inside are dozens of high-resolution surveillance photographs of Jack taken at a underground casino in Atlantic City. Below the photos are detailed financial summaries of his personal bank accounts, highlighting three hundred thousand dollars in unpayable gambling debts to offshore lenders.

Then my eyes land on a yellowed memo sheet stapled to the first financial summary.

The handwriting is undeniable. It’s written in Peter’s sharp, precise, architectural script, every letter tilted with flawless mathematical accuracy.

“Subject is financially compromised. Vulnerable to recruitment. Recommend monitoring.”

My blood turns to liquid ice in my veins.

I drop to my knees right on the freezing concrete floor, the rough paper slipping between my trembling fingers. I read the date at the top of Peter’s memo again and again, my brain refusing to process the numbers stamped into the header: April 14th.

April 14th was six full weeks before I met Jack at the gallery opening.

Peter knew.

He knew Jack was completely broke, deeply compromised, and drowning in debt before Jack ever said hello to me. He knew my father was actively searching for a desperate puppet to target me, ruin my mother’s firm, and control my family trust.

Peter didn’t just fail to protect me. He stood on the wall like a cold sentinel, pulled out a notepad, and took detailed notes while my father set the bear trap right in front of my feet.

“You watched,” I choke out into the empty, silent basement, a raw tear burning down my cheek before I angrily wipe it away with the back of my hand. “You sat in your office and watched him wreck my life.”

I pull my phone from my pocket, my fingers suddenly going completely steady, completely cold. I line up the camera lens and photograph every single page, every surveillance shot, and every line of Peter’s handwriting.

This hurts a thousand times worse than Jack’s betrayal. Jack was just a cheap coward bought with a stack of hundred-dollar bills. But Peter was the man I trusted to help me burn Richard to the ground.

I flip to the very back of the portfolio, expecting another set of bank statements, but a loose sheet of ivory paper falls onto my lap.

It’s another handwritten note in Peter’s script, clipped directly to Jack’s debt breakdown:

“Elena Vostok has expressed interest in the Morrison situation. Do not involve her. Too volatile.”

A cruel, bitter laugh escapes my throat.

He protected Elena. Three years ago, when my world was falling apart and Jack was invading my life, Peter took extra precautions to keep his elegant fiancée safe from the ugly, dirty corporate war. He shielded Elena from the mess while throwing me directly into the dark pit to see if I would sink or swim.

I fold the ivory paper, slide it back into the leather binder, and push the portfolio back into its exact position inside the file drawer.

I stand up, walk out of the archives, and head straight into the executive restroom on the lower level.

I collapse over the porcelain sink and throw up everything in my stomach.

I turn the cold water faucet on full blast, cupping my hands and splashing ice-cold water directly over my face. I wipe my skin dry with a paper towel and look up into the illuminated mirror above the vanity.

The weak, heartbroken girl who cried in Peter’s car after Jack’s betrayal is gone. Her eyes are completely dead, her lips set into a sharp, rigid line. Someone cold and unyielding is staring back at me.

I pull my phone back out, opening a direct text thread with Peter.

Found the Kane files. Meet at the boathouse. 10 PM. Alone.

I don't mention Jack’s portfolio. I don't mention his handwriting, his surveillance notes, or Elena’s name.

I want to look straight into his cold grey eyes when he lies to my face.