Chapter 9 - The Ghost from the Past
The quiet life we had built in the Hamptons was shattered on a rainy Thursday morning in late autumn.
I was in the sunroom reviewing quarterly reports for the Moretti-Kingsley Foundation while Chloe napped upstairs, when the front security intercom buzzed. Dominic was away in Frankfurt closing a major European tech acquisition, leaving me alone at the estate with our personal security detail.
“Mrs. Moretti,” our head of security, Marcus, spoke through the speaker, his voice tight and guarded. “You have a visitor at the front gate. Refuses to leave. Says her name is Eleanor Vance.”
I blinked in surprise. Eleanor Vance—the former senior board member of Kingsley Industries who had orchestrated Grant’s firing two years ago. We hadn't spoken since that day.
“Let her in, Marcus, but have two guards escort her to the conservatory,” I instructed, my instincts immediately kicking into high gear.
Ten minutes later, the heavy glass doors of the conservatory slid open. Eleanor walked in, looking remarkably aged. The sharp, iron-willed titan of Wall Street now looked exhausted, her posture slumped, wearing a heavy wool coat damp from the coastal drizzle.
“Claire,” Eleanor said, her voice raspy. She didn't offer a handshake. She simply stood by the indoor lemon tree, looking around the bright, expensive room with a bitter smile. “You built quite a sanctuary here.”
“It’s safe,” I replied coldly, remaining seated behind my mahogany desk. “Which is more than I can say for wherever you’ve been. Why are you here, Eleanor? You haven't been part of this world since Kingsley Industries collapsed.”
Eleanor let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Because Kingsley Industries was only the tip of the iceberg, Claire. And Grant... Grant isn't gone.”
My blood ran cold. “What are you talking about? He’s serving probation, and his assets were seized.”
“Assets can be hidden, Claire. People can vanish and reappear,” Eleanor said, stepping closer to the desk, her eyes wide with a frantic, desperate energy. “Three weeks ago, someone started buying up distressed shares of Moretti Tech through anonymous shell companies registered in the Cayman Islands. At first, Dominic’s team thought it was just hostile market noise. But yesterday, I intercepted a paper trail.”
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She reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a crumpled manila folder, and slammed it down onto my desk.
“Grant didn't lose everything,” Eleanor whispered. “His father’s old international contacts helped him stash forty million dollars in a secret trust before the bankruptcy went through. And he’s using every single cent of it to destroy Dominic.”
