Chapter 13

POV: Declan

"You're making a mistake with the timeline, Declan," Sloane said, her voice dropping into that flat, counting register she used when checking a balance sheet.

Declan didn't release her arm. His fingers remained clamped around her sleeve, his thumb pressing into the wool just above her bare wrist. "The log doesn't lie, Sloane. The signature on the Vance logistics server matches the one on your charity revision down to the pixel."

"Bridget has my digital key," she said, her chest moving in short, controlled breaths. "She took the token from my desk the night of the investor dinner."

"The token requires a biometric backup," Declan said, his tone flattening as he stepped closer, crowding her against the concrete pillar of the service garage. "A thumbprint, Sloane. Your thumbprint."

"I was asleep," she whispered, her gaze locked onto his cold, unblinking eyes. "The medication the house physician gave me for the migraine... I didn't wake up until six in the morning. Bridget was in my room for forty minutes before the car cleared the northern gate."

"Preston," Declan called out without turning his head. "Did the house physician verify the dosage?"

"He verified the prescription, sir," Preston said from the lift threshold. "But the log shows the vial was cleared from the cabinet at seven-thirty. Sloane didn't log her evening check-in until eight-fifteen."

"A forty-five-minute gap," Declan murmured, his gaze narrowing as he studied the pale line of her jaw. "Enough time to duplicate a temporary key if someone knew where the secondary terminal was routed."

"I didn't duplicate anything," Sloane said, her hand flattening against his chest to keep him from stepping closer. "If I wanted to steal the Vance files, Declan, I wouldn't have used the foundation transit account to clear the harbor bridge. I’m efficient. I’m not stupid."

"Stupid people don't alter five-billion-dollar merger agreements, Sloane. Desperate people do." Declan slowly released his grip on her arm, his hand falling back to his side. "The transit board is convening in twenty minutes. If the leak isn't contained by midnight, the Vance family pulls their support, and the Madden estate goes into corporate receivership by sunrise."

"Then let me talk to Marcus Webb," she said.

"Webb isn't the problem anymore," Declan said, turning toward the lift. "Andrew Pierce is. He’s the one who authorized the text to my private line."

Sloane took a step after him, her gray coat swinging against her knees. "Pierce doesn't want the merger dead, Declan. He wants the price lowered. If he can prove the Madden family shifted assets into an offshore medical trust before the contract was signed, he can force you to restructure the acquisition margins."

Declan stopped inside the metal lift, his thumb hovering over the penthouse button. "And why would that matter to you?"

"Because if you restructure the margins, the first line item you'll cut is the secondary foundation allowance," Sloane said, her voice dropping into a harsh, bare whisper. "The fund that pays for Jamie's placement."

Declan studied her face under the sharp halogen lights of the elevator. Her composure was back, the mask perfectly fitted, but her fingers were trembling against the fabric of her coat. He didn't offer her a hand. He didn't move to close the distance.

"Get in," he said.

The lift ascended in absolute silence, the numbers on the digital panel ticking upward toward the ninety-second floor. When the doors slid open, the executive level was dark, the only illumination coming from the blue glow of the wall monitors in Declan’s private office.

Preston crossed the room immediately, a secondary folder in his hand. "Sir, the transit board just released the preliminary agenda. Andrew Pierce is listed as the primary representative for the Vance minority shareholders."

"Where is Bridget?" Declan asked, walking behind his desk.

"She’s at the townhouse, sir," Preston said. "Our detail confirmed her vehicle hasn't moved from the driveway since eleven o'clock. But her personal device just pinged a cell tower three blocks from Harbor Row."

Sloane walked to the center of the office, her eyes fixed on the frozen traffic camera still on the main monitor. "She left the phone in the car."

"Or she left it with someone else," Declan said, sitting down. He looked at Sloane, his eyes tracking the bare skin of her left wrist again. "Where is the watch, Sloane?"

"I told you," she said, her voice steady. "The clasp was slipping. It’s in my bag."

"Show me," he said.

Sloane didn't move for three seconds. Then, with deliberate slowness, she unzipped the side pocket of her leather tote and pulled out the small, round gold timepiece. The leather band was dark with age, the gold bezel scratched near the twelve-o'clock marker.

Declan took it from her hand, his fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second. He turned the watch over, his thumb tracing the tiny inscription on the back of the casing. M.M. 1964.

"Your grandmother's," he said.

"Yes," Sloane said.

"The woman in the Harbor Row footage isn't wearing a watch with a loose clasp, Sloane," Declan said, setting the gold piece flat on the dark wood of his desk. "She’s wearing one with a double-locking deployment buckle. The kind that doesn't slip when you're reaching through a car window to take a folder from a courier."

Sloane’s breathing stopped. She looked at the watch on the desk, then back to Declan. "Bridget doesn't own a deployment buckle."

"No," Declan said, his tone flattening into that icy, lethal register. "But Margaret Madden does. The estate inventory from ninety-eight lists a matching Patek Philippe with a gold mesh band. Your mother wore it to the pre-wedding dinner."

The office went completely quiet, the sound of the city traffic ninety floors below fading into the heavy air.

"Mother doesn't know the server codes," Sloane said, her voice barely audible.

"Mother knows how to hire people who do," Declan replied, leaning forward. "She didn't want the merger with Shaw Tower, Sloane. She wanted the Pierce offer. She only signed my contract because the liquidation orders gave her twenty-four hours to vacate the estate."

"If she terminates the deal now, she goes to jail for the asset shifting," Sloane said.

"She doesn't go to jail if she can prove you were the one who authorized the wire transfer from the Boston account," Declan said, pointing to the image on his phone. "The text didn't come from Pierce’s office, Sloane. It came from your mother’s private residence."

Sloane stepped back, her heels digging into the wool rug. "She’s sacrificing me."

"She’s saving Bridget," Declan corrected her, his voice devoid of any warmth, any pity. "Bridget is the bride the family wanted on the billboard. You were the exchange piece for the creditors. If you take the fall for the Vance leak, the family name stays clean, and Bridget can re-enter the negotiation with Pierce once the probate lock is active."

"And Jamie?" Sloane asked, her chin lifting, her eyes turning dangerously dark.

"Jamie becomes an uncollectible debt," Declan said. "The clinic terminates his placement within forty-eight hours of the audit notice."

Sloane turned toward the glass wall, her reflection ghosting against the gray fog of the financial district. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. Her posture remained perfectly erect, her shoulders squared against the weight of the tower around her.

"What are you going to do, Declan?" she asked.

"I’m going to protect my board seats," he said, standing up. He walked until he was standing directly behind her, his breath warm against the dark strands of hair near her collar. "The transit board meets in ten minutes. You will sit in that room, Sloane. You will wear the gold watch. And you will tell Andrew Pierce exactly what I wrote for you on page six of the charity ledger."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I give the state board the original signature file from Tuesday morning," Declan said, his hand coming down onto the glass beside her head, effectively blocking her in. "The one with your thumbprint on the validation line."

Sloane turned around slowly within the tight space between his body and the window. Her chest brushed his vest, the proximity so sharp it felt like an accusation. "You still think I did it."

"I think you're the only person in this room capable of playing both sides of the ledger without losing your breath," Declan said, his gaze dropping to her mouth before rising back to her dark eyes. "Now put the watch on."

She reached out, her fingers cold as she picked up the gold piece from the desk. She didn't look at him while she fastened the leather band around her wrist, her knuckles white against the dark skin.

"The board room is ready, sir," Preston said from the doorway.

Declan didn't look back. He kept his eyes on Sloane’s face as she straightened her gray coat, her fingers smoothing the fabric with that terrifying, elegant precision.

"Let’s go turn your mother’s timeline into a liability," Declan said.

The hallway to the main boardroom was lined with walnut paneling, the blue lights from the corporate floor casting long shadows ahead of them. As Sloane reached for the brass handle of the double doors, her private phone buzzed in her pocket.

She stopped, her hand hovering over the metal.

Declan looked over her shoulder. "Leave it."

"It’s the clinic," Sloane said, her voice dropping into that thin, hollow register.

She pulled the device out, the screen illuminating her pale fingers in the dark corridor. It wasn't a text from the medical director. It was a single notification from the transit board's public registry feed, updated thirty seconds ago.

The primary signature on the Vance logistics injunction wasn't Sloane's. It wasn't Bridget's.

Written flat across the bottom of the electronic filing, under the corporate seal of Shaw Tower, was Declan’s own personal authorization code—signed three hours before the gala had even begun.