Chapter Three

~ Jennifer ~

The day Stanley left for Singapore was a day of terrifying opportunity. He stood outside his mansion, well-dressed and presentable, ready for his usual business trip. Every one of his travel suits was well arranged in his luggage and carried out by his driver.

“Behave,” he said, his kiss a dry, threatening touch on my cheek.

“Of course, Stanley. Have a successful trip,” I murmured, my eyes downcast, pretending to care for my lovely husband.

The moment his car disappeared down the long driveway, I moved fast in the house . My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I slipped into his study, the room that was the inner sanctum of his power.

Using the code I’d memorized, I disabled the alarm. My hands trembled as I booted up his computer. The password was his mother’s maiden name and his birth year a sentimental weakness he’d have denied possessing.

I found what I was looking for: the encrypted files for the Singapore deal. I copied them onto a small, unassuming USB drive I’d bought with my pawnshop money. I also copied files on his offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland. It was more than enough to bury him.

Then, I did the hardest thing I had ever done. I picked up the phone on his desk, a secure line, and called directory inquiries. I asked for the main number for Croft Holdings.

His name was Alistair Croft. I found him in the financial section of a newspaper Stanley had thrown across the room in a rage, a red circle drawn around a headline: “Croft Industries Loses Major Contract to Morgan Corp.” Stanley’s company. The article called Alistair “ruthless” and “unforgiving.” Perfect.

A receptionist answered the call with polished efficiency.

“I need to speak to Mr. Alistair Croft,” I said, my voice shaking only slightly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Croft is unavailable right now. May I direct you to….”

“Tell him it’s Jennifer Morgan. " I cut in before she could finish. "And tell him I have information on Stanley Morgan’s Singapore acquisition. He’ll take the call.”

There was a long pause from the receptionist. I held my breath, convinced she would be dismissed. Then, a click, and a new, older, gravelly voice came on the line.

“This is Alistair Croft, how may I help you?”

I almost dropped the phone. “Mr. Croft… My name is Jennifer Morgan. I’m Stanley’s wife.” I said.

“I know who you are,” he said, his tone neutral and wary.

“I have files, documents regarding his business practices in Singapore and elsewhere. I believe you will find them… of interest.” I said boldly.

There was another pause, longer this time. I could almost hear him thinking, calculating the angles, and the possibility of a trap.

“Your husband,” Croft said, “is a difficult man, but an even harder one to catch.”

“He’s careless at home,” I interrupted. I laid it out, not as a plea, but as a business proposal: I told him about the abuse, the miscarriage, and the hidden security system I’d installed after the first “fall.” that would help me backed up my evidence. Including a digital diary of bruises and threats.

“Tragic,” Croft said, his tone devoid of pity. “But domestic disputes are messy. They tarnish, but they don’t necessarily destroy a man like Stanley.”

The silence on the other end stretched for a moment, tense and heavy. Finally, Croft’s voice cut through, calm but resolute. “Alright… since you have solid evidence, I’ll arrange a place for us to meet and discuss this properly.” He said.

An hour later, disguised in a simple coat and sunglasses, my heart pounding with a terror that was laced with wild, electric hope, I walked into the quiet, book-lined warmth of the reading room at the public library. I felt like a spy in a le Carré novel.

Alistair Croft was already there. He was in his early fifties dangerously dressed in glasses that had a camera installed in them.

I sat opposite him and, without a word, slid the USB drive across the polished table.

He took it, his eyes never leaving my face. He saw the careful makeup that couldn’t entirely conceal the shadows under my eyes, the way I held myself with a stiffness that spoke of old injuries. He saw the faint, almost-healed split in my lip.

“Show me,” he said quietly, not wanting to lose focus on me.

I had brought the forgotten tablet inside Stanley’s study. I plugged in the drive and opened the files, explaining what they were and what they meant. I spoke in a low, steady voice, my knowledge shocking even to me. I was no longer the victim; I was an analyst presenting a damning case.

When I finished, Croft leaned back in his chair. He looked from the tablet to my face, and for the first time, his expression softened almost imperceptibly. “This deal was going to be a huge one,” he exclaimed to himself.

“This is… exceptionally thorough, Mrs. Stanley.”

“I,” I corrected.

“Jennifer. This information is enough for a significant SEC investigation. It could land your husband in prison for a very long time.”

“I know.”

“What do you want in return?”

“Protection. A divorce. And enough money to disappear and never have to worry about him or anyone like him again.”

He studied me for a long moment. “You could have asked for more. A great deal more.”

Alistair Croft nodded slowly. A flicker of respect was in his eyes. “Very well. You have a deal. My lawyers will be in touch. You’ll be taken to a safe house tonight. My driver is outside.”

Tears of relief finally spilled down my cheeks. It was as if the heavy weight of my head had been lifted a bit. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He walked away from the scene immediately and headed straight to where his car was parked, then drove off.

I stared constantly until the car disappeared from my sight.