Chapter 11

POV: Declan

"Shut the door, Preston," Declan said, his eyes never leaving the security log on his tablet.

Preston stepped into the office, the latch clicking behind him as he adjusted his grip on a secondary file. "The house physician signed the original medical log at eight p.m., sir. He confirmed the migraine. But the garage transponder shows Bridget’s vehicle left the lower level forty minutes later."

"And the gate cameras?"

"Looped," Preston said, placing the printed manifest on the edge of the desk. "A twelve-minute blackout on the southern perimeter feed. Whoever took the car knew the blind spots in the lower ward tracking system."

Declan leaned back, his hand resting on the arm of his chair. His voice dropped into that flat, corporate register. "Sloane was in the dining room until nine. I was with the audit team."

"Yes, sir."

"Then Bridget left the tower alone."

"The transponder pings put the vehicle on the northern bridge heading toward the clinic district," Preston said. "But the toll records don't match her standard personal card. It was a corporate account registered to the Madden foundation."

"The foundation account Sloane controls," Declan murmured.

"Yes, sir."

The door to the inner gallery clicked open. Sloane stood in the threshold, her gray wool coat over her arm, her dark hair pinned low and neat. She looked at Preston, then at the tablet in Declan’s hand.

"You're reviewing the gate logs," Sloane said, walking into the room without waiting for an invitation.

Declan didn't move. "Your sister has a habit of disappearing when the ledger gets complicated."

"Bridget was in her room," Sloane said.

"Bridget was four miles away from her room," Declan said, tossing the tablet onto the desk between them. "She cleared the bridge at eight-forty. She returned at four in the morning. And she used your foundation routing number to clear the transit tolls."

Sloane’s face remained perfectly still, but her fingers tightened against the wool of her coat. "The foundation account is frozen."

"It’s frozen for external withdrawals," Declan said. "It isn't frozen for municipal service fees. You knew that when you revised the compliance summaries on Tuesday."

Sloane looked at Preston, then back to Declan. "If she took the car, she did it without my permission."

"She didn't need your permission," Declan said, standing up. He walked until he was standing two feet away from her, his presence crowding her into the space near the leather chairs. "She had your code, Sloane. The same code you used to wire the twenty-three thousand dollars to the cardiac unit."

"I didn't give her the code," Sloane said, her voice dropping.

"Then she stole it from your desk," Declan said. "Or you gave it to her to buy her silence after she found the wire receipt."

Sloane’s chin lifted, her eyes turning dark. "I don't buy silence from my sister, Declan. I contain her."

"You’re doing a poor job of it," he said. "Preston, leave us."

Preston nodded once, retreating through the heavy double doors until the latch clicked home.

The office felt smaller with the door closed, the gray morning light from the glass wall cutting across Sloane’s pale face. She didn't drop her gaze. She stood her ground, her heels planted into the wool rug.

"What do you think she did?" Sloane asked.

"I think she met with Andrew Pierce’s representation," Declan said, his tone perfectly level. "The Vance merger requires a clean title on the Madden estate. If Pierce finds a single discrepancy in your father’s old transit allocations, the board pulls the funding before Friday."

"Bridget doesn't know anything about the transit allocations," Sloane said. "She doesn't read the files."

"She knows you moved the money for Jamie," Declan said. "That’s all Pierce needs to trigger an internal audit. A single allegation of asset shifting before the contract is finalized, and the whole structure collapses."

Sloane took a slow breath, her fingers loosening on her coat. "She wouldn't ruin the deal. If the deal falls through, the house in the country goes into foreclosure. Mother would lose the allowance."

"Bridget doesn't think about the house, Sloane. She thinks about the room she’s currently standing in." Declan stepped closer, his shadow falling completely over her. "She wants her position back. And she thinks if she creates enough leverage, I’ll swap the brides before the press conference on Thursday."

"Are you going to?" Sloane asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Declan studied the curve of her jaw, the sharp, intelligent line of her mouth. She wasn't pleading. Even now, with the wire receipt in his desk and her sister moving in the dark, she was looking at him like a math problem.

"You're more useful than she is," Declan said cold-bloodedly. "But useful assets become liabilities when they carry names like grand larceny."

"I told you why I took that money," she said.

"And I told you I own the ledger now," Declan replied. "If Bridget met with Pierce, she has the original receipt. The copy she left on my blotter was a warning. She kept the master file."

Sloane turned toward the window, her silhouette sharp against the gray glass. "She doesn't have it."

"How do you know?"

"Because I kept the original in the safe at the house," Sloane said, turning back to face him. "The one behind the library panel. Bridget doesn't know the combination."

"Bridget doesn't need the combination if she has a hammer, Sloane." Declan walked back to his desk, picking up his phone. "Preston, get the car around. We’re going to the Madden house."

"Declan, wait," Sloane said, stepping into his path. "If my mother sees your security team at the gate, she’ll call the board herself. She thinks the contract is already registered."

"The contract is registered when I say it is," Declan said, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. "Move, Sloane."

"Let me go first," she said, her hand reaching out to touch his rolled sleeve. Her palm was warm, shocking against his skin. "I can get the file before she realizes what we're looking for. If you go, she’ll burn it before she lets you see the discrepancy."

Declan looked down at her fingers on his arm. She didn't drop her hand immediately. She held on, her grip surprisingly tight for someone so slight.

"Twenty minutes," Declan said, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous rhythm. "If you aren't at the gate with the master folder by noon, I send Preston in with the liquidation orders."

"Ten minutes is all I need," Sloane said, dropping her hand and turning toward the corridor.

The drive across the northern bridge was silent. Declan watched the city disappear behind them through the tinted glass, his fingers tapping a slow, steady pulse against the leather armrest. He didn't like being behind the clock. He didn't like discovering gaps in a system he had spent six months fortifying.

The car pulled up to the rusted iron gates of the Madden estate at exactly eleven-forty. The house looked larger in the gray winter light, the stone facade peeling, the lower gardens choked with dead weeds. It was a dead kingdom, held together by nothing more than Declan’s monthly line of credit.

"Sir," Preston said from the front seat, his screen illuminating the dark interior. "The secondary transponder just pinged."

Declan leaned forward. "Where?"

"The carriage house behind the main stables," Preston said, turning his head. "Bridget’s car is there. The engine is still warm."

Declan opened the door before the vehicle had fully stopped. "Stay here, Preston. Keep the gate open."

He walked up the gravel path alone, his boots crunching against the wet stones. The front door of the mansion was unlatched, swinging open an inch into the cold draft of the foyer. The house smelled of damp wool and old paper—the exact smell Sloane carried on her coat when she first arrived at Shaw Tower.

"Sloane," Declan called out, his voice echoing off the high, uncarpeted walls of the hallway.

No one answered.

He moved toward the library at the back of the house. The door was splintered near the lock, the mahogany frame cracked open as if someone had taken a iron poker to the brass handles.

Inside, the room was in ruins.

The library panels had been ripped away from the eastern wall, exposing the small steel wall safe behind the plaster. The door of the safe was wide open, its interior completely empty. A few loose sheets of financial bond paper were scattered across the floor, catching the cold wind coming through the broken windowpane.

Declan walked to the center of the room, his eyes scanning the debris.

In the corner, behind the overturned writing desk, a splash of red silk stood out against the dark wood.

Bridget was sitting on the floor, her back against the baseboard, her crimson dress torn at the shoulder. Her face was pale, her fingers clutching a dark leather binder to her chest like a shield.

Sloane stood three feet away from her, a heavy brass fire iron held loosely in her right hand, her gray coat thrown on the floor behind her. Her face was completely blank, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps that fogged in the freezing air of the room.

"Give me the binder, Bridget," Sloane said, her voice dropping into a whisper that sounded like dead leaves against concrete.

Bridget looked up at Declan as he crossed the threshold, her eyes wide with a terrifying, wild sort of relief. "Declan, stop her. She’s going to kill me. She’s the one who took the money. She’s the one who ruined everything."

Sloane didn't look at him. She didn't lower the iron. She took one slow, deliberate step toward her sister, her knuckles turning white around the brass handle. "I wanted him to have a heartbeat by the end of the winter, Bridget. You chose the wrong day to touch his files."