Chapter 2 - The Dead Woman’s Secret
Eleanor Marlowe had been dead for fourteen years.
At least, that was the first thought that entered my mind.
The second was that Vincent had finally said something impossible enough to make me stop trusting him entirely.
“Evan’s mother is dead.”
“I know.”
“You just said my father was hiding from her.”
“He was hiding from something she did before she died.”
“That is not the same sentence.”
“No.”
I wanted to scream at him.
Instead, I gripped the door handle until my fingers hurt.
“What did Eleanor do?”
“I don’t know the whole story.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is true.”
“Convenient.”
Vincent walked to the window.
Below us, guests were beginning to leave the gala. Black cars formed a line beneath the portico. Somewhere among them, Evan was probably sitting with his injured hand while strangers whispered about the proposal I had refused.
“Eleanor was my wife for twelve years,” Vincent said. “She was also Arthur’s favorite person in the family.”
I had seen photographs.
Eleanor Marlowe had been beautiful in the timeless, restrained way of women raised around old money. Blonde hair. Calm smile. Perfect posture.
Evan had her eyes.
“She worked for the Marlowe Foundation,” Vincent continued. “Officially, she managed donor relations. Unofficially, my father trusted her with private financial matters.”
“And?”
“After she died, I discovered records missing from the foundation archive. Not money. Documents.”
“What documents?”
“I didn’t know until Daniel contacted me four years ago.”
I stared at him.
“So my father contacted you.”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
“I know.”
“He reached out to you voluntarily?”
“He sent a package to my office. Inside was one page from a Calder Ridge ledger and a photograph of Eleanor.”
“Why?”
“He wrote one sentence.”
Vincent’s gaze met mine.
“She knew where Arthur hid the real books.”
A chill moved through me.
“Real books?”
“The complete transaction records. Names. Payments. Bribes. Companies. Everything.”
“And your father kept them?”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
“Insurance.”
Of course.
Men like Arthur Marlowe never trusted loyalty when leverage worked better.
“And Eleanor found them?”
“That is what Daniel believes.”
“Then where are they now?”
“I don’t know.”
I almost laughed.
“You run a multinational company, own half the buildings in this city, and everyone acts like you know what they had for breakfast before they do. But the moment your family is involved, suddenly you know nothing.”
“That’s fair.”
His acceptance of the criticism disarmed me.
I hated that too.
I turned toward the door again.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Daniel is not only sick.”
Something in Vincent’s tone stopped me.
“He has late-stage pancreatic cancer.”
The anger inside me cracked.
I looked down at the letter.
“How long?”
“The doctors estimated months.”
“When?”
“Six weeks ago.”
My eyes burned.
Six weeks.
My father had been dying for six weeks while I attended board meetings, planned gala logistics, and tried to convince myself I could build a future with a man I did not love.
“Why didn’t he write sooner?”
“He did.”
I looked at Vincent sharply.
He opened another drawer.
Inside were three unopened envelopes.
All addressed to me.
My breath disappeared.
“What are those?”
“Letters Daniel gave me over the last four years.”
The room went silent.
“You kept them?”
“He asked me to.”
“You kept my father’s letters from me?”
“Yes.”
The single syllable was enough.
I crossed the room and slapped him.
The sound cracked through the study.
Vincent did not move.
My palm stung.
His cheek reddened.
Neither of us spoke.
Then I grabbed the letters.
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
“You do not get to say that after doing it.”
“I know that too.”
“Stop saying you know.”
His jaw tightened.
“I gave Daniel my word.”
“And what did you give me?”
The question left us both still.
I had not meant to ask it.
But there it was.
What had Vincent given me?
Trust, professionally.
Respect.
Space.
Attention.
And apparently, four years of carefully managed ignorance.
“You let me fall in love with you while hiding this.”
His eyes changed.
“I did not know you loved me.”
“But you knew you loved me?”
He said nothing.
That was answer enough.
“How long?”
His voice was almost too quiet to hear.
“Two years.”
I looked away.
Two years.
While I dated his son.
While we shared late meetings.
While he watched me become part of his family’s life.
“You should have stayed away from me.”
“I did.”
“No. You stayed close enough to know everything and far enough to claim innocence.”
That one hurt him.
Good.
Because I was hurting too.
I tucked the letters into my bag.
“I’m leaving.”
“Claire.”
“If you follow me, I will call security.”
A humorless smile touched his mouth.
“It is my house.”
“I’ll still call them.”
For the first time that night, he almost smiled.
Then the moment vanished.
“Take the company car.”
“No.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
“I’ll get a cab.”
“At least let Mara go with you.”
“No.”
I opened the door.
This time he did not stop me.
I walked down the hallway and descended the main staircase into the wreckage of the gala.
Most guests had left.
Staff members cleared untouched dessert plates.
The stage where Evan had proposed now looked strangely ordinary.
Mara stood near the entrance.
When she saw me, her expression softened.
“Miss Bennett.”
“I’m going home.”
“Of course.”
She glanced toward the staircase.
“Mr. Marlowe upset you.”
“That is one way to describe it.”
Her eyes moved to the bag containing my father’s letters.
Then something changed in her face.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You knew,” I said.
Mara’s silence confirmed it.
My anger returned.
“Did everyone know my father was alive?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
I stared at her.
“I’m sorry.”
“Were you also protecting me?”
“No.”
That answer surprised me.
“I was protecting Evan.”
I went still.
“What does my father have to do with Evan?”
Mara looked around the ballroom.
Then she lowered her voice.
“There are things in this family that were buried after Mrs. Marlowe died.”
“Vincent mentioned missing records.”
Mara’s expression tightened.
“Then he still doesn’t know.”
“Know what?”
Mara looked toward the staircase as though she expected Vincent to appear.
“Eleanor didn’t discover Arthur’s real books.”
My pulse quickened.
“She created them.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She kept the second ledger. Every illegal payment. Every hidden account. Every man Arthur bribed.”
“Why?”
Mara swallowed.
“Because she planned to destroy him.”
The revelation made everything shift again.
“Why would she do that?”
“Because Arthur was going to take Evan away from her.”
I felt cold.
“Take him away?”
Mara’s eyes filled with old pain.
“He had learned a secret about Evan’s birth.”
Before I could ask the obvious question, tires screamed outside.
A man shouted.
Then came the unmistakable sound of metal striking stone.
The front doors flew open.
A security guard rushed inside.
“Call an ambulance!”
Mara grabbed my arm.
“What happened?”
The guard looked toward the driveway.
“It’s Mr. Evan.”
My heart stopped.
We ran outside.
Evan’s car had crashed into the stone wall beside the gate.
The driver’s side door hung open.
He was conscious, barely, blood running from his temple.
Vincent appeared behind us and crossed the distance faster than I had ever seen him move.
“Evan!”
His son looked up.
His face was pale with shock.
“Brake line,” Evan whispered.
May you like
Then his eyes found mine.
“Someone cut it.”
