Chapter 3 - The Safe in the Floorboards
The study smelled of leather and stale espresso. Shawn followed us inside like a condemned man walking to the gallows, shutting the heavy oak door behind him.
I didn’t go to the laptop. I knew Shawn was smart enough to keep digital backups wiped. But Shawn had an old-school habit inherited from his father: he kept physical, signed originals of every liability document he ever executed, just in case he needed leverage of his own.
I walked over to the built-in mahogany bookshelf, reached down to the bottom shelf, pulled away three leather-bound volumes of maritime law, and exposed the small digital wall safe.
Shawn let out a strangled groan. “How do you even know the code?”
“Because your birthday is predictable, and you talk in your sleep when your stomach ulcers act up,” I said coldly.
I punched in the six-digit code. The mechanical lock clicked open with a sharp, heavy *thump*.
I reached inside and pulled out a thick, navy-blue manila folder stamped with the seal of a private notary. I handed it directly to Anthony.
Anthony took it with trembling hands. As he flipped open the first page, his face drained of every drop of color.
The documents were explicit. Olivia had established a shell company registered in Delaware under a variation of her maiden name. Over fourteen months, she had diverted seven wire transfers—totaling two hundred and forty thousand dollars—directly out of Anthony’s company’s philanthropic endowment fund. Every single transfer had been masked by Shawn’s legal firm under the guise of “retained compliance retainers.”
“She bought the jewelry,” Anthony muttered, his voice hollow, reading through the ledger lines. “The trip to Monaco she claimed her influencer agency paid for… the Cartier bracelets… she stole from my grandfather’s dying legacy.”
“There’s more,” I said quietly.
Anthony looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “More?”
“Turn to page twelve, Anthony.”
Shawn suddenly lunged across the desk. “Lauren, no! That has nothing to do with the money! Don't do that to him!”
Anthony slammed Shawn against the edge of the desk with one massive arm, pinning him flat. “Shut your mouth, Shawn! Shut it!”
With his free hand, Anthony turned to page twelve.
Taped to the document was an email printout, accompanied by hotel receipts from a luxury resort in Aspen, Colorado, dated three weeks before Christmas. Attached were color photographs taken by an independent investigator.
The photos showed Olivia wrapped in a cashmere coat, smiling warmly, holding hands with a tall, silver-haired man entering an exclusive chalet suite.
The man was Carter Vance.
Anthony’s business partner. The chief financial officer of Anthony’s logistics empire, and Anthony’s closest childhood friend.
The room went completely, terrifyingly silent.
Anthony dropped the folder. The papers scattered across the oriental rug like dead leaves. He took two steps backward, stumbling slightly until his back hit the study wall.
He looked at Shawn. “Carter?” he whispered, his voice cracking into pieces. “She’s sleeping with Carter?”
Shawn slid to his knees beside the desk, burying his face in his hands. “She told me she was ending it,” Shawn sobbed. “She swore to me it was over months ago. She said if Carter exposed the money transfers, Carter would ruin her, so she had to keep him happy… Anthony, I swear I tried to stop her!”
Anthony didn’t yell. He didn't hit Shawn.
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He just looked up at the ceiling, let out a dry, ragged laugh that sounded like tearing metal, and whispered, “And today, she threw a cake in your face because Maya saw right through her soul.”
***
