Chapter 90
Lena's POV
After leaving Reynolds Industries, I came back to the office. It's time to deal with Marcus's plot.
The photograph had been sitting on my laptop screen for the past two hours, pixels sharpening and blurring as I zoomed in and out on details that refused to coalesce into answers.
Marcus. A café somewhere in Switzerland, judging by the German signage blurred in the background. A woman seated across from him—brunette, early forties perhaps, her profile turned just enough to be recognizable but not enough to identify with certainty. And there, casually positioned on the table between them, a manila folder with my name printed across the tab in block letters.
I leaned back in my office chair, the leather creaking softly in the empty space. It was past ten on a Thursday night, the rest of Grant & Clarke's floor long since dark. Even Rachel had left hours ago, though not without the kind of worried glance that said she knew I was avoiding going home.
Home. The apartment I'd rented after the divorce was functional, quiet, mine. And yet lately it felt less like freedom and more like a holding cell where I waited for the next crisis to announce itself.
I closed the photo and opened a new window, my fingers already typing the contact information for a private investigator Alexander had recommended last year during a particularly messy inheritance case. The email was brief, professional, attached photo included: Need identification and background on the female subject. Current location Switzerland. Urgency high.
The reply came within minutes. Received. Will have preliminary report within 48 hours. Retainer agreement attached.
I signed it electronically, added my credit card information, and hit send before I could second-guess the expense.
---
The next morning arrived with deceptive normalcy. I reviewed contracts, returned client calls, approved Diana's brief for an upcoming motion hearing. The rhythm of work was soothing in its predictability, a pattern I could control when everything else seemed determined to slip through my fingers.
My phone buzzed during lunch—a text from the investigator: Subject uses alias "Maria Bergmann" in Zurich records. Former US citizen, emigration patterns suggest deliberate identity change. Full report pending verification.
I stared at the message, my sandwich forgotten. Former US citizen. That narrow scope of possibility felt both vast and claustrophobic. Someone Marcus knew from his past, perhaps. Someone with reason to disappear.
I pulled up my case archive, six years of merger negotiations and corporate governance disputes, scrolling through client names and opposing counsel until my eyes began to blur. If I'd encountered this woman before, the connection wasn't obvious. But then again, Marcus had always been skilled at concealment.
I needed more information. Then I texted Alexander: [Free now? Need your support.]
Reply from Alexander: [I'm free tonight. What's the matter?]
I hesitated, then typed back: [Can you help with one thing? Tracking immigration records for a specific individual.]
His response was immediate: [Of course. Send me what you have.]
I cropped the photo to show only the woman, then continued my own investigation.
At five-thirty, as the sun bled orange through the office windows, my mother called.
"Lena." Vivian's voice carried that particular edge of impatience that meant she'd already decided how this conversation would end. "We need to discuss your progress with the Pierce arrangement."
I set down the contract I'd been reviewing and switched the phone to speaker, buying myself a moment to smooth the irritation from my voice. "Mother."
"Have you spoken to Alexander this week?"
"Briefly. We had coffee on Monday." A lie, but a harmless one. Let her believe I was playing the obedient daughter.
"And?" The single word cracked like a whip.
"These things take time. We're... getting to know each other properly." Another lie, though this one tasted more bitter.
Vivian made a sound of displeasure. "Time is something we don't have, Lena. Nexus Investment's Q4 projections are disastrous, thanks to your father's spectacular implosion. I need this alliance secured before the board meeting in March."
Your father. Never Marcus. Never acknowledging that she'd chosen to marry him, to have a child with him, to ignore every warning sign until the damage was catastrophic.
"I understand," I said carefully.
"Do you?" Her tone sharpened further. "Because I've also taken the liberty of arranging a backup option. Gerald Johnson—he owns a mid-sized manufacturing firm, good cash flow, solid reputation. He's forty-six, divorced, no children. I'm having dinner with him tomorrow to discuss possibilities."
My hand tightened on the edge of my desk. "You're arranging another marriage candidate without consulting me."
"I'm ensuring you have options when the Pierce situation inevitably falls through." She paused. "Johnson is amenable to a swift engagement. If Alexander proves... unsuitable, you'll move forward with Gerald immediately."
Gerald. Forty-six years old. "Good cash flow." The words she didn't say echoed louder: desperate enough to accept you.
"I see." My voice came out flatter than I intended.
"You understand the urgency, I trust. Grant family reputation aside, I need external capital to maintain control of Nexus. Your marriage—to anyone appropriate—facilitates that. Don't make this more difficult than necessary."
The line went quiet except for her breathing, measured and expectant.
"I understand, Mother." The words tasted like ash. "I'll... consider Mr. Johnson."
"Good. I'll send you his file." She hung up without a farewell.
I sat in the silence that followed, staring at the phone screen until it went dark. Then I opened my messages and scrolled to Rachel's name, finding the shared folder where she'd been quietly compiling information on Nexus Investment—board voting records, suspicious transactions, patterns of Marcus's asset transfers that the auditors had somehow missed.
Evidence. Leverage. My insurance policy against the day I finally told Vivian exactly where she could put her marriage arrangements.
I won't be your trading chip, I thought. Not anymore.