Chapter 2 - The First LieGrant read the message three times.
Then he walked to the window, his shoulders rigid beneath his expensive suit.
“They can't suspend my access,” he muttered.
I lay in the hospital bed, exhausted and shaking, watching the man I had loved for five years discover that consequences could reach him.
“Grant.”
He held up one finger.
“Not now, Emma.”
I almost laughed.
Twenty minutes earlier, I had been the woman whose premature labor inconvenienced him. Now that his career was in danger, I had apparently become invisible again.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
He turned around.
“I'm going to explain everything to Noah. Once he hears my side, he'll understand.”
“Your side?”
“Yes. You were in distress. I was trying to manage an impossible situation.”
“You gave your mistress our car.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Our car?”
“Emma, for God's sake. You have just given birth. You're emotional, and I don't want you saying things you'll regret.”
“Like telling the truth?”
He approached my bed, lowering his voice.
“You have no idea how much money is riding on this deal.”
I stared at him.
“I know how much money you told me we didn't have.”
His expression flickered.
The nursery flashed through my mind: half-painted walls, a crib still wrapped in cardboard, a box of baby clothes I had bought on sale because Grant said we needed to save every dollar.
I had sold my grandmother's necklace to pay the hospital deposit. Grant had told me we couldn't afford a proper maternity photographer, yet Vanessa had recently posted photographs from a luxury hotel in Vancouver.
“You said your company hadn't paid you for two months,” I continued. “You told me the Maserati was a temporary lease you couldn't get out of. You told me the investment was our only chance to recover.”
“That's business.”
“Then why did I find a hotel reservation on our shared tablet?”
Grant's face went still.
I hadn't planned to mention it. But the sight of him standing beside my hospital bed with those ridiculous roses had broken something inside me.
“The reservation wasn't yours,” I said. “It was for you and Vanessa. Suite 1807. Champagne at midnight.”
He looked toward the door.
“You went through my private information?”
“It was on a tablet you asked me to use.”
“That doesn't give you the right to spy on me.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Even now, after abandoning me and his unborn child in the rain, he believed the real offense was that I had discovered him.
“Get out,” I said.
He didn't move.
“Emma, listen carefully. Noah Whitaker is not your friend. He doesn't help people out of kindness. If he's suddenly interested in you, there's a reason.”
“Maybe he didn't want a pregnant woman giving birth on the sidewalk.”
“Don't be naïve.”
A voice came from behind him.
“She's asked you to leave.”
Noah stood in the doorway with a physician beside him.
Grant spun around.
“Mr. Whitaker. Finally. I was just explaining—”
“You were ignoring your wife's request.”
“She's upset.”
“Understandably.”
Noah entered the room, followed by a woman in a dark suit carrying a tablet. She introduced herself as Claire Bennett, Whitaker Global's general counsel.
Grant immediately straightened his tie.
“Ms. Bennett, perhaps we could schedule a private meeting. The proposal includes sensitive financial information, and I believe there's been a serious misunderstanding.”
Claire glanced at her tablet.
“Your access to Whitaker Global's secure project files has been revoked pending review.”
Grant's mouth tightened.
“On whose authority?”
“Mine, acting under Mr. Whitaker's instructions.”
“You can't do that without a formal notice.”
“We have issued one.”
She showed him a document on her screen.
“This is not a final determination about your conduct. It is a temporary security measure while we investigate discrepancies in the materials submitted under your name.”
For the first time, I noticed Noah watching my husband with something beyond anger.
Suspicion.
“What discrepancies?” Grant demanded.
Claire didn't answer.
Noah did.
“Several figures in your Vancouver presentation don't match the financial records supplied to our investment committee. Two shipping contracts appear to be worth considerably more on paper than the companies involved have ever reported.”
Grant's face lost color.
“Those numbers came from your analysts.”
“That's what you claimed.”
“They must have made an error.”
“Perhaps.” Noah looked at him steadily. “Or perhaps someone wanted my company to invest hundreds of millions of dollars in businesses that don't exist.”
Grant gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“That accusation is absurd.”
“Then an independent audit will clear your name.”
Silence filled the room.
Grant looked at me, and I recognized the calculation in his eyes.
He wasn't wondering whether I was hurt.
He was wondering what I knew.
“Noah,” he said carefully, “perhaps Emma has given you an incomplete picture of our circumstances. She's been under considerable stress lately. She's had access to my work files, and—”
“Stop.”
Noah's voice was quiet, but Grant stopped talking.
“You will not use your wife to explain away financial inconsistencies you haven't yet addressed.”
Grant's fists clenched.
“You're making a mistake.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Noah turned toward the door, but Claire stayed behind.
“Mr. Miller,” she said, “one final question. Why did your submitted proposal contain a confidential freight forecast that was never released to your company?”
Grant didn't answer.
His eyes moved toward me.
I remembered the blue folder in the Maserati, the late nights, the password-protected laptop, and a document I had accidentally glimpsed while borrowing his charger.
A forecast marked NORTHSTAR: RESTRICTED.
I had never understood what it meant.
But suddenly, I was certain Grant knew I had seen it.
He leaned toward my bed, his voice almost inaudible.
“Emma, you need to remember something.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You have no idea what you've gotten yourself involved in.”
He walked out before I could respond.
Claire watched him disappear down the corridor. Then she turned to me.
“Emma, do you recognize the name Northstar?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
She pulled a chair beside my bed.
“Then I need you to tell me everything you remember.”
Before I could begin, my phone vibrated on the bedside table.
A message had arrived from an unknown number.
It contained a photograph of Lily in the neonatal intensive care unit, taken through the glass of her nursery.
May you like
Underneath it were seven words.
TELL NOAH NOTHING, OR YOUR DAUGHTER DISAPPEARS.
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