Chapter 3: Shadows Don't Knock

Raine

"You killed him, didn't you?"

The words struck me before I even entered the boardroom.

I froze still. My hands tightened around the crutches at my side, but I held myself upright, my face unreadable.

Larsson Ashcroft didn't flinch. He sat back in his chair as if he'd been waiting for this moment, waiting patiently to watch me bleed before the entire board. "A man signs a contract and drops dead in the same breath. Excuse me, Raine, but that's more than a mere coincidence."

My breath snapped. There were twelve of them seated around the table. One chair, the head chair, was empty.

Cassian's chair.

I walked past it without looking at it. My heels clicked on the marble floor, echoing like a timer. I stopped halfway down the length of the table and turned to face them. My voice, when it came out, was firmer than I expected.

"I didn't kill my husband."

Larsson smiled. "Is that what you're calling him now?"

The others said nothing. I could feel their eyes crawling over me, scrutinizing my every twitch. To them, I wasn't a woman anymore. I was a puzzle. A suspect. A liability.

The contract I had in my bag weighed a thousand pounds.

"Cassian appointed me a temporary decision-maker," I retorted, placing the contract on the table with deliberate restraint. "In case of incapacitation, not death."

Whispers around the room like a flame. Some scoffed. One woman in a red suit—Legal Head, Eileen Hughes—picked up the document and read through it with gloved fingers.

"Convenient language," she growled. "No boardroom cameras. No witnesses but the two of you. A legal marriage. And five minutes later, he collapsed and rushed to the ICU."

"He's dead," Larsson interrupted. "Let's stop sugarcoating it."

"No," I snapped back. "You stop burying him while his body is still warm."

Larson gazed at me in shock. Then gasped.

I wasn't supposed to speak like that. Not here. Not in front of them.

But something inside of me had cracked open the moment Cassian fell and hadn't stopped unraveling since.

I inhaled. "I'm not asking for your trust. I'm asking for time. You wish to probe me? Fine. But while you waste days looking for ties that don’t exist, this business bleeds."

Larsson propped his elbows on the table. "And what exactly are you proposing, Mrs. Ashcroft?

I hated the way he said it—teasing, like it was a name I was not worthy of.

"I propose that until Cassian's medical status is officially announced, I am the acting chairwoman of Ashcroft Holdings," I declared. "It's on the signed documents. Your documents."

The room fell into hushed arguments. Some were for it. Others were against it. I could feel the room hanging on a dangerous edge.

Then Malik Voss—Cassian's best friend—spoke.

"She's correct." His voice was low, but steady. "Cassian appointed her. He didn't trust any of us. And he didn't make emotional decisions."

The room was silent. I had a small spasm of relief for a brief moment.

Then Larsson slammed the hammer.

"Even if she stays, she's a PR nightmare. Have you seen the headlines?"

He grabbed the remote and switched on the boardroom screen. In an instant, the room was filled with noise.

"The Widow Curse?" — Billionaire Bride Accused of CEO's Collapse

"Ashcroft Tragedy or Strategic Takeover?"

"Disabled Heiress or Corporate Hitwoman?"

My stomach turned. I hadn't looked at these yet. I hadn't wanted to.

Those images were worse—screenshots of me leaving the hospital, my cane clutched in my hand, dark shadows under my eyes, that same contract boldly held up in my hand like a murder weapon.

I looked away, nausea rising into my throat.

"I did not sign up for this," Larsson said. "The company didn't sign up for this."

Malik's voice cut through the room. "Cassian did."

I met his gaze and nodded just slightly.

They gave me 72 hours.

Seventy-two hours to show them I was worthy to lead, or they'd call a vote and erase me from the company—and from Cassian's legacy—once and for all.

The meeting was adjourned. Everyone filed out.

Everyone, except me.

I sank into Cassian's chair, my breath finally catching up with me. The leather was warm, still bearing the imprint of his shape. For a moment, I sat there, silent, lost in the echoes of what had just happened.

Then I remember the video.

I pulled out my tablet and hit play.

Cassian stood on a balcony, his hair blown about by the wind. He looked… haunted. As if he knew something was coming his way.

“If you’re seeing this,” he said, “then the worst has happened. Or the worst has been done to me.”

He paused.

“There’s a file. Phoenix Protocol. Hidden in the private vault under my name. Password’s the year the merger failed.”

The screen glitched. His voice cut in again, but lower this time.

“Don’t trust anyone, not even the ones who claim to protect you”.

The screen went black.

My fingers shook as I slammed the tablet shut.

“Phoenix Protocol”.

I had no idea what it was, but I was certain I had to find it.

And then—buzz.

A message flashed across my phone screen.

They're watching you. Room 517. Hotel Veridian. Midnight. Come alone.

My heart stopped.

I stared at the message. No name. No trail.

Only the room number and a threat disguised as an invitation.

I didn't move for what seemed like eternity. My breath came short. My hands trembled.

Is this a trap?

Maybe.

But I was already in the fire. What else was I to do?

Midnight.

The hotel lobby was slippery, modern, and empty. Every footstep echoed against the marble. The air was heavy with the scent of polished steel and danger.

Room 517 was at the end of the hallway.

I knocked once.

No response.

Then the door creaked open.

The room was dimly lit, curtains were closed. A faint light glowed near the desk from a lamp.

Someone was sitting in the shadows.

I walked in slowly. My crutches tapped against the floor, my hands gripping it handle tightly.

"Raine Ellery," a woman’s voice drawled.

She stepped into the light.

I stood still.

Sierra.

Cassian's former assistant and ex-girlfriend.

The woman who was supposed to be married to him before me. The one who disappeared without explanation three months ago.

She was supposed to be in Paris. Or rehab. Or an asylum.

But here she is.

Alive, calm, and smiling.

With a cigarette clenched between one finger and a glass of crimson wine in the other.

My voice cracked. "What are you doing here?"

Sierra's smile faded away as she walked closer, her voice now a mere whisper.

"He's not dead, Raine. But if you don't find him before they do… You will be."

And she passed a flash drive across the tabletop and whispered…

"This is the only thing keeping him alive."

Before I could say jack the door to the hotel room burst open.

Three black men stormed into the room.

"Down on the floor, now!"

I turned to run.

A hand slapped my mouth.

The flash drive vanished.

Darkness fell.