Chapter 2 - The Wife Behind the Apron
The next morning, the gates around our townhouse remained closed.
Roman canceled three meetings.
The household staff pretended not to notice.
Arthur doubled security.
And I stood in the kitchen peeling apples as if nothing had changed.
It had always been easier for me to work than to wait.
Waiting gave fear room to breathe.
Roman entered the kitchen at eight.
“You're supposed to be resting.”
“I am.”
“You’re cutting fruit.”
“That’s resting compared to what I could be doing.”
He sighed.
“Come sit.”
I obeyed, mostly because the look on his face told me he would carry me to a chair if I refused.
He sat opposite me.
“Arthur found something.”
“What?”
“Trevor isn't just connected to your past.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“He works for Hale Capital.”
I stared at him.
“Vincent Hale?”
Roman nodded.
The name was familiar.
Everyone in Manhattan knew Vincent Hale.
He had built his fortune buying struggling businesses and stripping them apart.
Roman had spent two years fighting him over several properties.
“So Trevor works for your rival.”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
“Financial analysis.”
I gave a humorless laugh.
“Trevor was never good with numbers.”
“That may be why he was useful.”
Roman pushed a folder toward me.
“Look.”
Inside were financial reports.
Trevor’s name appeared repeatedly.
Then I saw mine.
I looked up.
“Why is my name here?”
Roman leaned forward.
“Someone has been searching for your old records.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
The answer frightened me more than anything else.
I closed the folder.
“Could this be because of my relationship with you?”
“That’s what I think.”
“You said our marriage was private for security reasons.”
“It was.”
“Maybe being private was a mistake.”
Roman looked at me carefully.
“Do you regret marrying me?”
“No.”
“Then don't let someone else's actions make you question it.”
I smiled weakly.
“You always make everything sound easy.”
“No.”
He reached across the table.
“I just refuse to let fear make decisions for me.”
His phone rang.
Arthur.
Roman answered.
“What?”
He listened.
His expression darkened.
“Bring it inside.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“A courier left something at the gate.”
Arthur entered a minute later carrying a small box.
My heart began beating faster.
Roman opened it.
Inside was an old photograph.
A much younger me stood beside my mother outside a laundromat.
On the back was one handwritten sentence.
YOU NEVER KNEW WHY YOUR MOTHER DIED.
I stopped breathing.
My mother had died when I was sixteen.
Everyone told me it was a heart condition.
I had never questioned it.
Roman looked at me.
“Sadi.”
I could not answer.
Arthur quietly closed the blinds.
Roman took my hand.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“No matter what this is,” he said, “you are not facing it alone.”
I nodded.
But that sentence on the photograph would haunt me all day.
That evening, I called the hospital where my mother had died.
The old records had supposedly been archived.
A nurse found them.
Then she called back.
“There’s something unusual.”
“What?”
“Your mother’s file was partially sealed.”
“By whom?”
“I don't know.”
“Can you tell me anything?”
There was silence.
Then:
“Your mother wasn't admitted for a heart attack.”
My knees weakened.
“What?”
“She was brought in after collapsing at work.”
“What caused it?”
“We don't have the complete report.”
“Why?”
“Because someone removed several pages.”
I lowered the phone.
Roman stood in the doorway.
“What happened?”
I told him.
His face became unreadable.
Then he said something I never expected.
“My father knew your mother.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“My father mentioned her once.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“What did he say?”
Roman looked away.
“That she helped him when he was younger.”
I felt dizzy.
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
His eyes snapped back to mine.
“I’m not.”
“Then why have I never heard this?”
“Because I forgot about it.”
“You don't forget something like that.”
Roman came closer.
“You're right.”
My voice broke.
“What are you not telling me?”
Before he could answer, Arthur rushed in.
“Sir.”
Roman turned.
“What?”
“We found a second camera.”
“Where?”
“In the alley behind the west side of the property.”
Arthur handed him a photograph.
A camera had been attached beneath a street sign.
Roman looked at it.
Then at me.
“This has been here for weeks.”
A cold feeling passed through me.
“Someone has been watching me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Roman didn’t answer.
Instead, he walked to the library.
I followed.
He opened an old cabinet.
From behind a row of books, he pulled a black metal box.
“I hoped I'd never need this.”
He unlocked it.
Inside were documents bearing his father’s name.
Richard Valen.
At the bottom sat a yellowing newspaper clipping.
Roman unfolded it.
My mother’s photograph stared back at me.
Headline:
LOCAL ASSISTANT MISSING AFTER FINANCIAL WHISTLEBLOWER REPORT.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
“She wasn't just a laundromat worker.”
“No.”
“What was she?”
Roman looked at me.
“She was an accountant.”
I stared at the photograph.
“She found something.”
“What?”
“Corruption.”
“By whom?”
Roman's silence answered before his words did.
“My father.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“No.”
“I don't know the full story.”
“You knew this?”
“I knew there had been accusations.”
“And you never told me?”
“I didn't know it involved your mother.”
I stood.
“You should have.”
“I know.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Everyone kept deciding what I could handle.”
Roman stepped toward me.
I moved back.
“I need space.”
Pain crossed his face.
“I’ll give you space.”
He left.
I sat on the library floor surrounded by old papers.
My mother.
Roman's father.
Vincent Hale.
Trevor.
All of them seemed connected.
At midnight, I found another document.
A bank transfer.
A payment made three days before my mother died.
The recipient name was hidden.
But beneath it was a handwritten note.
S.M.
My initials.
I stared at it.
Someone had paid money under my name.
And the payment had been made before I ever met Trevor.
May you like
That meant the secret wasn't about Roman.
It had begun long before him.
