Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Knew Too MuchMark stared at his phone as if the screen itself had betrayed him.
Call after call flooded in.
The Chief Financial Officer.
The chairman of the board.
His bank.
His legal department.
Three investors.
His executive assistant.
Every conversation sounded the same.
"Mark, we have a problem."
By the time the sixth call ended, sweat had formed along his temples despite the cool air inside the SUV.
Camille watched him carefully.
"What is it?"
Mark ignored her, dialing another number.
No answer.
Another.
Straight to voicemail.
He cursed under his breath and slammed his fist against the leather seat.
"This can't be happening."
Camille reached for his arm.
"Talk to me."
Mark finally looked at her, but the confidence she had admired all evening had vanished. His gray eyes were no longer calm. They were searching desperately for something—someone—to put the world back together.
"Isabelle," he muttered.
"What about her?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he replayed the last few minutes in his mind.
The black folder.
Her calm expression.
The strange confidence in her voice.
The way she had stepped out into the rain without looking back.
For the first time in years...
Mark realized she had already made her decision long before tonight.
Across Manhattan, Isabelle sat quietly in Helen Price's conference room.
The legal team continued moving around her with practiced efficiency.
Phones rang.
Printers hummed.
Assistants hurried between offices carrying newly printed court filings.
On the large television mounted against the wall, Anderson Technologies' stock price had already begun slipping after news spread that emergency board meetings had been scheduled before dawn.
Helen studied the screen.
"Rumors move faster than facts."
One of her associates entered carrying another folder.
"The board has officially suspended all major financial approvals until the audit is complete."
Helen nodded.
"As expected."
She handed the folder to Isabelle.
"There are a few more documents requiring your authorization."
Isabelle accepted it.
"What else is left?"
Helen hesitated.
"Something I chose not to discuss until tonight."
She opened the folder.
Unlike the others, these papers weren't related to company ownership.
Instead, the first page contained a photograph.
A little boy.
Perhaps ten years old.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
The same eyes as Mark.
Isabelle froze.
Her fingertips trembled against the edge of the page.
"...Noah."
Helen watched her carefully.
"You remember."
"Of course I remember."
Years earlier, before their wedding, Mark had confessed one secret during a night when too much whiskey had loosened his tongue.
A son.
A child from a relationship during college.
Mark had insisted the boy lived happily with his mother somewhere in Boston.
"They don't need me," he had said.
"I send money every month."
"They're better off without me."
Isabelle had believed him.
She had even offered to meet the child one day.
Mark refused every single time.
Eventually...
The subject disappeared from their marriage.
Until now.
Helen slowly pushed the photograph toward her.
"Noah is twelve now."
Isabelle swallowed.
"Why are you showing me this?"
Helen took a long breath.
"Because his mother died almost four years ago."
The room suddenly became silent.
"What?"
Mark never told her.
Not once.
"He... never said anything."
"He wouldn't."
Helen opened another page.
Hospital reports.
Guardianship records.
Financial statements.
Then came photographs.
A tiny bedroom.
Broken furniture.
Peeling wallpaper.
A rusted electric heater.
Empty cupboards.
Isabelle stared without blinking.
"What am I looking at?"
Helen answered quietly.
"The home where Noah has been living."
"No..."
"He hasn't been living with family."
"No."
"He has been living with his late mother's boyfriend."
The words felt impossible.
"But Mark said—"
"He lied."
Helen slid another report across the table.
"Most of the money intended for Noah's care disappeared years ago."
Isabelle's breathing became uneven.
"Disappeared?"
"Our investigators believe someone has been stealing directly from the trust established for him."
"Does Mark know?"
Helen didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she placed one final document in front of Isabelle.
An email.
Sent eight months earlier.
Recipient:
Mark Anderson.
Subject:
Urgent — Welfare Concern Regarding Noah Anderson
Status:
Opened.
Read.
Ignored.
Isabelle slowly covered her mouth.
Every word became harder to breathe through.
"He knew..."
Helen lowered her eyes.
"Yes."
Miles away, Mark finally arrived outside the Fifth Avenue penthouse.
The doorman stepped forward immediately.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson."
Mark barely slowed his pace.
"Open the elevator."
The doorman didn't move.
"I can't."
Mark frowned.
"What?"
"We've received new ownership instructions."
"I own this building."
"No, sir."
The older man looked genuinely uncomfortable.
"The property belongs to the Laurent Trust."
Mark's expression darkened.
"I live here."
"You did."
Camille stopped walking.
"...Mark?"
He marched toward the private elevator anyway.
The security panel flashed red.
ACCESS DENIED.
Again.
Red.
Again.
Red.
His jaw tightened.
"This system is malfunctioning."
Before anyone could answer, two uniformed security officers appeared.
"Mr. Anderson."
"We're going to ask you to leave the premises."
Mark turned slowly.
"You can't remove me from my own home."
One guard quietly held up the new authorization order.
Signed.
Stamped.
Effective immediately.
Owner:
The Laurent Family Trust.
For several long seconds, no one spoke.
Camille looked between the document and Mark.
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"You told me..."
Mark closed his eyes.
He finally understood.
The penthouse.
The company.
The investors.
The luxury cars.
Even tonight's gala.
None of it had truly belonged to him.
He hadn't built an empire alone.
He had built it standing on foundations someone else owned.
And now...
Those foundations had disappeared beneath his feet.
Across the city, Helen's phone buzzed once more.
She read the message before looking at Isabelle.
"They've denied him entry."
Isabelle didn't smile.
She only looked down at Noah's photograph once again.
A frightened twelve-year-old boy.
Forgotten by the father who had chosen ambition over responsibility.
She gently touched the edge of the picture.
"Where is he now?"
Helen's expression grew unusually solemn.
"In Bellevue Hospital."
Isabelle looked up sharply.
"What happened?"
Helen's voice softened.
"He was found unconscious this afternoon after collapsing from exhaustion."
The room seemed to stop breathing.
Isabelle stood so abruptly that her chair scraped loudly across the floor.
"I'm going."
Helen was already reaching for her coat.
"I thought you would."
Neither woman noticed that, at that exact moment, Mark's phone lit up again.
May you like
This time, the caller ID displayed only two words.
Bellevue Hospital.
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