Chapter 4

POV: Sloane

"Sloane Madden? I am Celeste Vane, Belladonna Events. There has been a complication with the catering reroute you requested."

The woman at the door stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her heels clicking sharply against the worn floorboards of the entryway.

Sloane kept her hand flat against the wood of the doorframe, blockading the space that led to the rest of the house. "I did not request a reroute."

Celeste frowned, pulling up a file on her tablet and turning the glowing screen toward her. "Someone did. Venue change, timeline shift. Harbor Pavilion at four instead of six. That request came from this address forty-seven minutes ago."

Bridget.

"That request was not authorized," Sloane said, her tone level and unhurried despite the sudden spike of heat behind her collar.

"Then who made it?"

Sloane stepped aside, opening the path just enough. "Come in."

Celeste entered but remained standing in the narrow hallway, her leather bag tucked firmly under her arm. "The Pavilion requires a different health inspection certificate than the Veridian. I do not have it in our system. Without it, the city locks the doors, and nothing gets set up."

"What is the fastest way to get it?"

"Six hours minimum," Celeste said, her thumb tapping the edge of her tablet. "You have four."

"Who signs off on it?"

"City health. Inspector Marlow."

Sloane looked down at the tablet, scanning the digital stamps. "Give me an hour."

Celeste did not move, her gaze narrowing as she evaluated the lack of panic in Sloane's expression. "You are serious."

"Yes."

"And how do you plan to do that on a Tuesday afternoon?"

Sloane did not answer. She merely adjusted the folder under her arm. "You need to be ready to move your trucks the moment it clears."

Celeste held her position for another second, searching Sloane's face for a bluff, before she finally gave a single, tight nod. "I will have my team staged at the Pavilion gates."

"Do that."

Sloane walked to the study and shut the heavy door behind her, cutting off the draft from the hallway.

The room still carried the faint smell of stale smoke and old paper. Her father's habits lingered in the fabrics even after the banks had stripped the walls. She did not sit at the desk. She went straight to the bottom left drawer, pulled it open, and looked at the single black flash drive resting in the back corner. This was not a card she had planned to play today. It was supposed to be her leverage for Jamie's next round of treatment if the insurance stalled again.

She closed the drawer with a firm click, picked up her phone, and dialed a number she had memorized six months ago.

"Elliot Vance." The voice on the other end was raspy, accompanied by the background hum of a television.

"Elliot. It is Sloane Madden."

A pause followed. It lasted long enough for Sloane to hear the television volume drop. He was not surprised, but the warmth was entirely absent.

"That is a name I did not expect to hear again."

"I need a trade."

"You do not get to ask me for anything, Sloane. Not after the liquidation."

"I am not asking."

Silence settled over the line.

Then, sharper this time, "What do you have?"

"Your brother's restaurant failed its structural and health inspection twice last year," Sloane said, her voice dropping into a calm, rhythmic drone. "The second report never went public because the inspector was a friend of your uncle. I have the unredacted digital log."

The line went completely quiet.

"I still have it," she repeated.

Another pause followed, longer this time, the weight of the implication hanging between them.

"You are sure about that."

"I do not bluff, Elliot. You know the family books."

A slow, ragged exhale came through the receiver. "What do you want."

"Inspector Marlow clears a certificate for the Harbor Pavilion today. Not by tonight. Now."

"You are asking me to move a city official on demand. That takes time."

"I am offering you eight months of leverage disappearing from my drive. You have forty minutes before the venue locks us out."

"That report," Elliot began, then stopped himself, a thread of bitter realization coloring his tone. "You have been sitting on that this entire time?"

"Yes."

"And now you spend it on a wedding dinner?"

"Yes."

The silence returned. He understood the math. That was the only part Sloane needed from him.

"Send me proof," he muttered.

"You will get the decryption key after the certificate clears the city database."

"You do not trust me."

"I trust that you protect your family first. Just like I do."

A beat passed.

Then he said, "Fine. I will make the call."

"If the certificate does not clear"

"It will," he cut in, his voice tightening with a sudden, vicious edge. "But if I do not get that file by three, I will make sure this whole event collapses so hard it takes your inspector down with it."

"You will have it by two-thirty."

The line went dead.

Sloane lowered the phone, her thumb resting against the dark glass screen. That was a piece she would never get back. A safety net gone for a catering schedule.

She turned and walked out of the study.

Celeste was exactly where she had left her, her posture still rigid against the wallpaper.

"You will have the certificate within the hour," Sloane said.

Celeste did not ask how this time. She simply tucked the tablet into her leather bag. "Then I will move my team."

"Be ready."

The front door opened and closed, the latch clicking home.

Sloane stayed where she was for a moment, her limbs heavy with the sudden exhaustion of the trade. She reached for the coffee pot on the kitchen counter, poured a fresh cup, and set it down without drinking it.

The phone lit up in her palm. Declan Shaw.

She let it ring once, then a second time, letting the vibration pulse against her skin before she slid the screen to answer. "Yes."

"How."

No greeting. No wasted preamble. His voice was a low, direct hum through the speaker.

"The issue is resolved," she said.

"That was not the question."

She did not answer immediately, watching the steam rise from the untouched coffee.

"I asked how," he said again, the tone dropping into that dictatorial register he used when analyzing a balance sheet.

"You needed a solution, Mr. Shaw. You have one."

A pause followed. Sloane could hear the faint sound of papers shuffling on his desk.

"You are deciding what to tell me," he noted.

"Yes."

The silence between them turned calculating, a quiet tug of war across the digital line.

"That is not how this works," he said.

"It is today."

Another pause.

"You think you get to control the information."

"I think I get to decide what I spend to keep your timeline clean."

"You are in my system now, Sloane."

"And your system is still standing."

A longer silence followed, heavy and deliberate.

"For now," he said quietly.

She did not respond, refusing to fill the empty space he was leaving for her to stumble into.

"When did you realize the original vendor was not stable?" he asked.

"This morning."

"And you replaced them before confirming the failure with my office."

"Yes."

"You acted before you had certainty."

"I acted before it became expensive."

A beat passed, the mechanical hum of his office elevator faintly audible in the background.

"You are not Bridget," Declan said. It was not a question. It was a cold, clinical observation.

"No."

"I know."

The line went completely still for three long seconds. Sloane's fingers tightened around the phone casing until her knuckles went pale.

"Be at the dinner tomorrow," he said, his voice returning to its normal, unyielding rhythm. "Seven."

"I will be there."

He did not hang up immediately. "Whatever you used to solve this, it cost you something."

"Yes."

"And you decided it was worth it."

"Yes."

Another pause, shorter this time, filled with a strange, dark focus.

"Good."

The line disconnected.

Sloane lowered the phone slowly, her breath leaving her in a quiet rush. The final word stayed in the room, lingering like the scent of her father's tobacco. It was not approval. It was an assessment. He was measuring her utility, and she had just proven herself valuable enough to keep.

Footsteps sounded behind her on the linoleum. Jamie leaned into her side, his shoulder hitting her arm with a familiar, clumsy warmth.

"Is it fixed?"

Sloane looked down at his pale face, touching the small cowlick at the crown of his head. "Most of it."

"What is left?"

She looked at the phone still damp from her palm. "Him."

Jamie did not ask anything else. He knew the tone.

Sloane set the device down on the counter. The coffee remained untouched, forming a thin skin across the top.

Outside, the sound of tires grinding against gravel cut through the room. A car slowed in front of the house, the engine humming with quiet power as it stopped completely.

Sloane looked toward the window. The timing was entirely wrong for Celeste's return.

Jamie straightened slightly beside her, his hand dropping from her waist. "Are we expecting someone else?"

"No."

A car door opened with a heavy, distinct thud. Then another.

Sloane moved toward the front of the house with controlled steps, her face resetting into a smooth, blank mask. She did not rush, but her hand found the deadbolt before the bell could ring.

By the time she cracked the door, she knew this was not about the city certificate or the vendor or the schedule. The air on the porch felt entirely too formal.

Two men stood on the stone step. They wore dark, tailored suits that did not belong to the local municipal office, and they carried themselves with the rigid, quiet purpose of corporate investigators.

The older of the two stepped forward, his scrutiny making the hallway feel narrower.

"Miss Madden," he said, his voice flat and entirely devoid of inflection. "We need to speak with you about a file that should not exist."

Sloane held her position against the doorframe, her posture unyielding. "Which one are you here for?"

The man did not answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the phone in her hand before returning to her eyes.

"The private account your father opened under Declan Shaw's signature three weeks ago," he said, holding up an internal corporate warrant. "The one that shows your family has been accessing his personal funds."