Chapter 3
The next morning, I went to the office early.
Marcus Hale, my boss and the CEO of Ashford Capital, was already in his office. I'd emailed him the full report last night.
He closed the door when I walked in.
"Claire," he said. "This is… explosive. You're sure about all of this?"
"Every number. Every account. Every invoice. I've triple-checked. Hawthorne Interiors has been running a shell-game for five years. Margaret and Vanessa Hawthorne have siphoned off roughly twelve million dollars. The company is functionally insolvent."
Marcus rubbed his temples. "And they're your in-laws."
"Five days. I was married five days. I'm already filing for divorce."
He nodded. "Okay. Here's what we do. We bring in outside counsel. We notify the SEC. We freeze their accounts. And we prepare to take full control of Hawthorne Interiors. We own the debt. When this goes public, the company is ours."
"Good." I paused. "Marcus, there's something else. Daniel Hawthorne knew. He admitted it to me last night. He's complicit."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Then we include him. No exceptions."
I left his office and went to my own. My team was already there—three analysts, two forensic accountants. I briefed them.
"We move fast," I said. "Before they have time to cover their tracks. Everything goes to legal by end of day. And nothing—nothing—leaks. Understood?"
They nodded.
By noon, we had everything packaged. By three, outside counsel was reviewing. By five, the SEC had been notified.
By six, my phone was ringing.
Margaret Hawthorne.
I let it go to voicemail.
Then Vanessa. Then Daniel. Then Richard—the father. I let them all go to voicemail.
They'd found out. Someone had leaked. Or Margaret had called her lawyer, who'd called her.
I turned off my phone and went home.
Not to Daniel's place. To my old apartment. I'd had it subleased, but the tenant was kind enough to let me crash on the couch for a few days.
I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Five days. Five days of marriage. And my life had completely unraveled.
But I wasn't sad. Not really.
I was angry. And anger, I've found, is excellent fuel.
The next morning, I turned my phone back on. Forty-seven missed calls. Eighty-three text messages.
And one email, from an unknown sender.
It had one attachment. A photo.
It was me. Leaving my apartment building. Taken that morning.
The email had no text. No subject. Just the photo.
My blood ran cold.
They were watching me.
I called Marcus. Then I called the police. Then I called my lawyer.
May you like
And I realized—this wasn't just about business anymore.
The Hawthornes were fighting for their freedom. And they'd do anything to win.
