Elena
The air in Mr. Davies’s office smells of old leather and even older money. It is a scent I used to find comforting. Now it just smells stagnant.
He peers at me over the top of his gold rimmed glasses, his expression a carefully managed mixture of concern and condescension.
“Miss Lin,” he says, his voice a low, paternal rumble. “Let me be sure I understand. You wish to liquidate the entire portfolio your fiancé helped you establish? All of it?”
I lean back in the plush chair, crossing my legs. I let the silence hang in the air for a moment, enjoying the slight frown that deepens between his brows.
“That’s correct, Mr. Davies. Every last stock.”
“But… these are excellent holdings. Blue chip securities. Rock solid. Mark has a very keen eye for the market.”
I offer him a small, placid smile. “Mark is brilliant. But I have a new strategy I’d like to pursue.”
He clears his throat, shuffling the papers on his mahogany desk. They are a list of my assets, a catalogue of my own impending financial ruin from a life I already lived. “And this new strategy would be…?”
I lean forward, placing a single sheet of paper on his desk. It has one name on it. “I want you to take the entire principal from the liquidation and invest it in this.”
Mr. Davies picks up the paper as if it might bite him. He holds it at a distance, squinting.
“‘Innovatech Solutions’?” He says the name like it is a foreign word he finds distasteful. “I’ve… I can’t say I’ve heard of them. Are they a new fund?”
“A startup,” I say. “They specialize in data compression algorithms. Very obscure.”
His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “A startup. Miss Lin, Elena, forgive me for being frank, but that is not investing. That is gambling. To put your entire inheritance into a single, unknown tech company…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It’s reckless. Mark would never advise such a thing.”
“Which is precisely why I’m not asking for Mark’s advice,” I reply, my voice turning to ice. The shift is subtle, but he feels it. He straightens in his chair.
“Of course. It is your money. I am simply advising you as your father has paid me to do for a decade. This is… financially irresponsible.”
I meet his gaze and hold it. The old Elena would have withered under that stare, would have apologized and deferred to his and Mark's superior knowledge. The old Elena is dead.
“Mr. Davies, in six months, a German automotive conglomerate is going to announce a massive recall due to a faulty emissions sensor. The stock for their primary parts supplier, a company that makes up twenty percent of my current portfolio, will lose sixty percent of its value overnight.”
He blinks. “That’s just speculation. Rumor.”
“And in eight months,” I continue, my voice low and even, “a trade dispute with Brazil will decimate the value of two other major agricultural stocks Mark picked out for me. Another thirty percent of the portfolio, gone. By this time next year, the portfolio you’re clutching in your hand will be worth less than half of what it is today.”
He stares at me, his mouth slightly agape. I am not supposed to know these things. A socialite. A fiancée. My expertise is meant to be in floral arrangements and seating charts.
“How could you possibly…?”
“Let’s just say I have a very strong feeling about the market’s direction,” I cut him off smoothly. “So. Are you going to make the trade for me, or do I need to find a new financial advisor who will?”
The unspoken threat hangs between us. His firm has managed my family’s money for two generations. Losing that account would be a catastrophe for him.
He swallows hard, his professional composure cracking. He looks down at the name on the paper again. ‘Innovatech Solutions’.
“As you wish, Miss Lin,” he says, his voice tight. “The trades will be executed by end of day.”
“Excellent.” I stand up, smoothing down my dress. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Davies.”
I walk out of his office without a backward glance, the feeling of taking the first real step on a new board thrilling me. I am not just dodging their bullets this time. I am building my own fortress.
Chloe is waiting for me on the veranda when I get home, lounging on a wicker chair like she owns the place. She is wearing oversized sunglasses and a scowl. A large, ugly brown water stain has replaced the vibrant red one on the front of her white dress, which is draped over the chair next to her.
“There you are,” she says, her voice flat. “I was about to send out a search party.”
“I had an errand to run,” I say, keeping my tone light and breezy. I sit down opposite her, pouring myself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher on the table.
“An errand more important than consoling your best friend in her time of crisis?” She gestures dramatically to the ruined dress.
“Chloe, I am still so sorry about that. It was horrible of me.”
“The dry cleaner said the stain is permanent. He called it a ‘catastrophic pigment immersion’.” She sighs, a sound heavy with theatrical grief. “It was couture, El. One of a kind.”
“I know. I feel terrible.”
She takes a sip of her own tea, peering at me over the rim of her glass. “You just don’t seem yourself lately. First, the wine… incident. Now you disappear all morning without a word. Are you getting cold feet? Is the wedding stress getting to you?”
I force a laugh. “Don’t be silly. I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life. I was just… meeting with a designer for the wedding invitations.” A plausible lie. The kind of thing the old me would be doing.
Her expression softens slightly. She believes it. Of course she does. She has always underestimated me.
“Well, you should be more careful,” she chides, slipping back into her familiar role as the concerned, slightly more mature friend. “You seemed so out of it last night. Spilling that wine… it’s not like you to be so clumsy.”
“I know. My hand just… slipped.” I look down at my hands, feigning embarrassment.
“Mark was worried. He said you seemed distant.” She watches my face, looking for a reaction. A crack. A tell.
I give her the perfect one. My lower lip trembles. I look up at her, my eyes wide and earnest.
“Was he mad? I really ruined your big moment. Your speech was so beautiful, and I just… I ruined it.”
She waves a dismissive hand, the tension leaving her shoulders. She’s back on comfortable ground, her superiority affirmed. “Don’t be silly. He wasn’t mad at you. Just disappointed for me. You know how protective he is.”
“He is the best,” I say, my voice a soft whisper.
We sit in silence for a moment. Chloe inspects her manicure. She is smug. She thinks she has figured it out. I am just a nervous bride, a silly, clumsy girl overwhelmed by it all. The world is back on its axis.
“Anyway,” she says, standing up and gathering the stained dress. “I should go. I have a fitting for my bridesmaid dress this afternoon. Let’s try to keep this one clean, shall we?” She gives me a tight, condescending smile.
“I’ll do my best,” I promise.
I watch her walk away, her hips swinging. The confidence in her stride is an insult. She has no idea she just walked out of a ghost story. And she is the one being haunted.
Once her car is gone from the driveway, I go straight to my bedroom. I take out the new laptop I bought for cash yesterday morning. It has never been connected to my home network. I use a secure, untraceable wifi hotspot I also paid for in cash.
I open a browser and navigate to a website that specializes in high quality replicas. Jewelry, watches, handbags. The playground of the insecure and the fraudulent.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. Mark gave me a diamond bracelet two nights ago. A pre engagement gift. Delicate platinum, with a single, perfect pear shaped diamond. It was from Cartier. Unique. Instantly recognizable.
I find a replica on the site. It is a good one, but not perfect. The setting is slightly thicker, the clasp less refined. The stone is cubic zirconia, its fire a little too bright, a little too desperate to be real. It is a cheap imitation. An insult.
I add it to my cart. For the delivery address, I type in Chloe’s apartment. I pay with a prepaid, anonymous credit card. In the gift message section, I pause for a moment, considering the perfect words.
I type: *Thinking of you. Can’t wait until we don’t have to hide anymore.*
I do not sign it.
I close the laptop, a cold, clean satisfaction settling over me. It is a small thing. A cheap piece of glass and metal. But seeds of doubt do not need to be large. They just need fertile ground to grow.
And Chloe’s mind, so full of jealousy and insecurity, is the most fertile ground I can imagine.
