Chapter 17 - The Unseen Puppeteer
The anonymous phone call hung over our estate like a gathering storm cloud.
For forty-eight hours, Dominic’s private cybersecurity team tore through digital footprints, IP addresses, and routing data to trace the origin of the call and the leaked medical file. The results sent a shockwave through our security protocols.
The file hadn't come from a random internet troll. It had been routed through a secure, encrypted server registered to an offshore holding company based in Zurich—a holding company that was actively managed by none other than Arthur Kingsley’s former personal trust attorney, Julian Vance.
“Julian Vance died of a massive heart attack three months after Grant’s conviction,” Dominic pointed out, leaning over the glass conference table in our home study, pointing a laser pointer at a digital schematic of financial connections. “His estate was completely liquidated.”
“Or so we were led to believe,” I said, pacing across the hardwood floor, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. “Think about it, Dominic. Arthur Kingsley spent forty years building a ruthless financial empire. Do you really think a man like that put all his eggs in Grant’s basket? Grant was a spoiled, incompetent pawn. But someone engineered the cover-up of his medical diagnosis from day one. Someone wanted me broken, isolated, and legally trapped.”
Dominic looked up from the screen, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “Arthur.”
“He never forgave us for destroying Kingsley Industries,” I whispered, the puzzle pieces finally snapping together in my mind. “When Grant was sent to prison, Arthur retreated from public view, playing the part of the broken, defeated patriarch. But he didn't lose his wealth. He just hid it deeper.”
Before Dominic could respond, my phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't an anonymous caller. It was a text message from an automated security alert at our Manhattan health center:
Perimeter breach detected at Moretti-Kingsley Center, Archive Level B. Security cameras compromised.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Archive Level B housed the original, physical legal depositions and medical ledgers from our corporate litigation—the unedited records that proved Arthur Kingsley’s direct involvement in the medical bribery scheme.
“They’re not after us here in the Hamptons,” I realized, panic spiking through my veins. “They’re trying to destroy the remaining evidence at the foundation.”
May you like
Dominic didn't hesitate for a single microsecond. He grabbed his car keys and his encrypted satellite phone off the desk, his face carved from granite.
“Marcus!” Dominic shouted toward the intercom. “Prep the chopper and assemble the tactical detail. We’re going to Manhattan.”
