Chapter 4 - The Midnight Visitor
The celebration in the penthouse suite was mercifully quiet.
While the board members scattered like frightened mice to shred documents and call their criminal defense attorneys, Marcus and I stood on the private wrap-around balcony, watching the snow begin to fall again over the glittering grid of city streets.
"You terrified them," Marcus said, handing me a crystal flute of sparkling cider. "Arthur has been stealing from the foundation for half a decade, and you dismantled his entire operation before breakfast."
"Hospital triage," I replied, taking a small sip. "Stop the bleeding, isolate the infection, remove the necrotic tissue. It’s amazing how well those principles translate to corporate finance."
"And Trent?" Marcus asked softly, turning his head to look at me. "Has he tried to reach out again?"
I pulled my phone from my coat pocket. The screen displayed forty-seven missed calls, twelve text messages ranging from frantic apologies to outright threats, and a long, desperate email detailing how Chloe had already packed her bags and left his apartment the moment she realized his bank accounts were frozen and his name was blacklisted from every high-end establishment in the state.
"He lost his mistress, his business credit, and his house in the span of forty-eight hours," I said, watching the amber glow of the city lights reflect in the dark glass. "He’s currently sitting in his empty kitchen wondering what went wrong. Just like I was on Christmas Eve."
Marcus reached out, his warm fingers brushing against the back of my hand. The silver coin—Kindness is the only investment that never fails—sat in my pocket, heavy and comforting like a talisman.
"He didn't deserve twenty-eight years of you, Claudia," Marcus said quietly. "Nobody who throws away a lifetime for a reflection in a mirror deserves to keep the warmth you carry."
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors of the penthouse suite burst open with a loud slam.
Footsteps echoed across the marble foyer—frantic, heavy, and desperate.
"Claudia!" a voice screamed from the hallway.
It was Trent.
May you like
He had bypassed security—or bribed a desperate desk clerk—to get all the way up to the fifty-fourth floor. He rounded the corner into the private lounge, his designer overcoat rumpled, his hair unbrushed, looking every bit like a man whose world had completely unraveled.
And then he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting from me in my designer winter coat to Marcus Wellington standing beside me on the balcony.
