Ivy
The charade is exhausting. More exhausting than the broken ribs or the persistent, dull ache in my skull.
For three days, I have been a model patient. I let Julian feed me soup. I let him fluff my pillows. I let him read to me from novels I find mind numbingly dull. I smile when he smiles, and I offer a weak hand for him to hold.
And I watch his number. The stubborn ‘5’. It never changes. It’s a brand on him, a mark of his absolute, unwavering fraudulence.
“I have to step out for a bit this afternoon, my love,” he says, setting a tray with tea and toast on the ottoman. He’s dressed in a tailored suit today, a deep charcoal grey that makes his eyes look like chips of ice.
“Oh?” I ask, keeping my voice light. I take a sip of the tea. It’s chamomile. Of course it is.
“A business lunch. A potential new investor for one of my startups. I tried to cancel, but he’s flying out tonight and was terribly insistent.” Julian straightens his tie, a perfect silver knot. “I hate to leave you.”
“Don’t be silly,” I say, forcing another smile. “You have to work. I’ll be fine. I might even take a nap.”
“That’s my girl.” He leans down and kisses my cheek. His lips are cool. The ‘5’ bobs just inches from my face. “I’ll have my phone on me. Call if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“I will,” I lie.
He gives me one last look, a performance of profound reluctance, and then he’s gone. The moment the elevator doors chime shut, the performance ends. My smile dissolves. I set the tea down, my hand steady. A business lunch.
I pull out the burner phone I had Lena bring me yesterday, hidden deep within the pages of a thick biography of Rockefeller she’d called ‘light reading’ with a wink. Her ‘85’ had been a lighthouse in the fog of Julian’s lies.
My fingers fly across the screen. I send a single text to a number I know by heart.
‘Car. Now. South entrance.’
The reply is instantaneous. ‘On my way, Ms. Vance.’
I stand up, ignoring the protest from my ribs. The patient act is over. I walk to my closet, pushing past the soft silks and cashmere Julian prefers to see me in. I grab a pair of black trousers, a simple grey silk shirt, and a dark trench coat. I twist my hair up, securing it under a black baseball cap I haven’t worn in years. In the mirror, I’m a shadow. Anonymous. Good.
Ten minutes later, I’m slipping out the service exit and into the back of a non descript black sedan idling at the curb. The man at the wheel is Arthur, my head of security. He’s a mountain of a man who has worked for me for a decade. He is quiet, efficient, and fiercely loyal.
A solid, reassuring ‘90’ glows above his bald head.
“Where to?” he asks, his voice a low rumble. He doesn’t ask why I’m dressed like a spy or why I’m using a burner phone.
“Follow Julian’s car. He left about ten minutes ago. Stay a block behind. He can’t see us.”
Arthur just nods, his eyes on the road. “I’ve already got him. Tagged his car this morning.”
The corner of my mouth quirks up. This is why Arthur’s number is a ninety. He anticipates. He acts.
We trail Julian’s silver sports car through the city. He’s not heading toward the financial district, where any legitimate investor lunch would be. He’s heading for the old industrial waterfront, a collection of gentrified warehouses converted into overpriced restaurants and empty art galleries.
He pulls up to ‘Veritas’, a place known more for its privacy than its food. It’s where deals are made in whispers, where secrets are the main course.
“Stop here,” I tell Arthur, pointing to a spot across the street with a clear view of the entrance. “Kill the engine.”
He does as I say. We sit in silence. I pull a pair of small, powerful binoculars from the glove compartment. Another thing I can always count on Arthur for.
I raise them to my eyes just as Julian steps out of his car. He hands his keys to the valet and smooths his suit jacket. He looks confident. Smug.
A moment later, another man arrives. He’s older, with a face like a collapsed building, all harsh lines and shadowed hollows. He’s thin and wears a cheap looking suit, but he walks with the predatory stillness of a snake.
My blood turns to ice. I know that man.
Marcus Thorne. They call him The Ghost in certain circles. He’s a corporate saboteur. A professional destroyer. He doesn’t invest in companies. He dismantles them. He ruins careers, manufactures scandals, makes evidence… disappear. People who cross Marcus Thorne have a habit of having very bad accidents.
My hands tremble slightly. I lower the binoculars. Brakes rarely fail on a brand new truck.
“Ms. Vance?” Arthur’s voice is quiet, but laced with concern.
“Do you know who that is?” I ask, my own voice flat, devoid of emotion.
He glances over. “Marcus Thorne. A real piece of work. What’s Julian doing with him?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
I watch them through the restaurant’s large front window. They take a secluded table in the back corner. Julian is talking, leaning forward, his hands gesturing animatedly. Thorne just listens, his face a stone mask. I can’t see their numbers from this distance, not clearly.
They talk for an hour. My spine feels fused to the leather seat. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight.
Finally, Thorne stands up. He shakes Julian’s hand, a quick, dry pump. Then he leaves. Julian remains seated, a satisfied smirk on his face. He orders another drink, a whiskey, and raises the glass in a small, private toast to himself.
He sips his drink, looking out the window. His gaze travels across the street, over our car, and up. Up towards the glittering spire of my penthouse, miles away but clearly visible against the afternoon sky.
And as he looks at my home, the place where he pretends to love and care for me, his expression shifts. The charming smile vanishes. It’s replaced by a look of pure, undiluted contempt. A sneer that twists his handsome features into something ugly. Something monstrous.
I don’t need the binoculars for this. Even from across the street, I can see the number above his head. The ‘5’ is gone. It doesn’t just dip or flicker. It plummets.
It crashes to a sickening, visceral ‘2’.
A ‘2’. That is the truth. That is the real Julian. The man who looks at my life, my home, my empire, and feels nothing but contempt. The man who hired a saboteur. The man who tried to have me killed.
The rage is so cold it feels like a physical thing, a shard of ice forming in my chest. There is no grief. No heartbreak. Those emotions are a luxury I can’t afford. Betrayal doesn’t break me. It focuses me.
I see it all now. The accident wasn’t about me. It was about my company. With me dead or incapacitated, my shares would be tied up. My will, which names Julian as a significant beneficiary, would come into play. He wouldn’t just get my money. He’d get a seat at the table. He’d get power.
He didn’t just try to kill me. He tried to steal my life’s work.
Julian finishes his drink, throws some cash on the table, and walks out. He gets in his car and drives away, heading back to my penthouse. Back to play the part of the doting boyfriend to the fragile woman he almost murdered.
I wait until his car is out of sight. My breath is even. My hands are steady again.
“Arthur,” I say, my voice as calm as a frozen lake.
“Ma’am.”
“I’m starting a new project. It’s off the books. Completely confidential. No data trail. No one knows but you and me. Do you understand?”
His ‘90’ is unwavering. “Perfectly.”
“I want you to pull everything on my accident. Not the police report. I want the original maintenance logs for that truck. The driver’s financials for the last five years. His known associates. Every scrap of data you can find. I want to know who paid him.”
“It’ll be done.”
“Second,” I continue, turning to look at him. “I want everything you can find on Marcus Thorne. His clients, his methods, his bank accounts. I want to know where he sleeps at night.”
“Understood.”
I take a deep breath. “And finally… I want a full surveillance package on Julian Croft. His phones, his financials, his movements. I want to know who he talks to, who he pays, who he screws. I want to know every lie he’s ever told.”
Arthur meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. His eyes are hard. “Consider it my top priority, Ms. Vance.”
The ice in my chest isn’t melting. It’s hardening. Sharpening into a weapon.
“Take me back,” I say. “Use the service entrance.”
It’s time to go home. The invalid is waiting for her nurse.
