Chapter 134
Diana's POV
The office was silent except for the hum of my computer and the occasional rustle of paper. 11:34 PM. The coffee in my mug had gone cold hours ago, a thin film forming on the surface. I should've gone home. Should've listened when Sophia reminded me that burning out wouldn't help anyone.
But I couldn't leave. Not yet.
My eyes burned as I cross-referenced another wire transfer from Silverpine Advisory Group with the timeline Jack's team had provided. The European financial records were dense, deliberately obfuscated through layers of shell companies, but patterns were emerging. Twenty years of carefully laundered money, all leading back to the same architect of misery.
My gaze drifted to the photograph propped against my desk lamp. Katya Ivanov, smiling. Eighteen years old, dark eyes bright with hope before Silverpine had turned her into a commodity—a kidney donor who never consented, never knew what was being stolen from her body until it was too late.
Two years. It had been two years since I lost that case, since I'd watched the evidence disappear and the lawyers slither away unpunished.
"This time," I whispered to the photo, "I won't let you down."
My phone buzzed. Lena's name appeared on the screen.
Lena Grant: Good work on the timeline. But get some rest. This can wait until morning.
My fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Lena meant well—everyone did when they told me to slow down, to take care of myself, to remember that I was only human. But Katya hadn't gotten to rest. Katya had died alone in a Bulgarian hospital, her family never even told what really happened.
Diana Clarke: Will do. Just want to finish the cross-reference first. Almost done.
I set the phone aside and returned to the spreadsheet. Just one more section. Just one more link in the chain.
The numbers blurred. I blinked hard, trying to focus, but my eyelids felt weighted. I'd been running on coffee and spite for sixteen hours straight. Just a few more minutes. Just needed to verify this last transaction, the one dated three weeks before Katya's surgery—
---
Warmth settled across my shoulders.
My eyes flew open. I'd been slumped forward, cheek pressed against my keyboard, a line of random letters marching across my screen. Disoriented, I turned my head—and froze.
Jack stood beside my desk, one hand still extended from draping his suit jacket over my shoulders. He stepped back immediately when I stirred, raising both hands in a gesture of apology.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to startle you."
I straightened, heart pounding from the sudden wake-up. I pushed the jacket off my shoulders—expensive wool, still warm from his body—and tried to process the scene. Jack. In my office. At—I glanced at my computer clock—12:47 AM.
"What are you doing here?" The words came out sharper than I intended, tinged with embarrassment at being caught asleep at my desk.
Jack shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "I was driving home. Saw your lights still on from the street." He gestured vaguely toward the window. "Thought I'd check if everything was okay."
My hand moved instinctively to smooth my hair, which I was certain looked disastrous. "I'm fine. Just working late."
"I can see that." His gaze swept over my desk—the cold coffee, the scattered files, the photo of Katya, the protein bar wrapper that constituted my dinner. When his eyes returned to mine, something in his expression had softened. "Rowan asked me to drop off supplementary materials first thing tomorrow, but I can leave them now if it helps."
"Tomorrow's fine." I started gathering papers, trying to impose order on the chaos. "I was just finishing the cross-reference for the Interpol report. I want to submit it tomorrow—today, I mean." I winced at how frazzled I sounded.
Jack moved closer, angling his head to see my screen. "You're planning to finish all of this tonight?"
"It's not that much left." A lie. We both knew it.
He was quiet for a moment, studying the spreadsheet with a practiced eye. Then: "I just had coffee. I'm not tired." A pause. "I could help. Then drive you home after."
My first instinct was to refuse. I'd spent two years learning to handle everything alone after the Katya case destroyed my reputation. Accepting help—especially from Jack, the man I'd wrongly accused just weeks ago—felt like admitting weakness.
"I don't want to keep you," I said carefully. "It's already so late."
"And it'll be later by the time you finish alone." Jack's tone was practical, not pushy. "Besides, I can't sleep anyway. Might as well do something useful instead of staring at my ceiling." He pulled out the chair beside my desk. "And Rowan needs these numbers for tomorrow's briefing. I should familiarize myself with them anyway."
The last part was clearly an excuse—a way to let me accept without feeling like I owed him. I recognized the tactic because I used it myself when trying to help people who were too proud to ask.
I looked at him for a long moment. Jack met my gaze steadily, no pity in his expression. Just… patience.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Thank you."
---
We fell into a rhythm surprisingly quickly.
I assigned him the task of cross-checking wire transfer dates against the timeline of Silverpine's known activities. Jack worked with quiet efficiency, occasionally asking clarifying questions but mostly silent, his pen making neat notations in the margins of the printed reports.
Twenty minutes in, he paused. "This transfer—February 14th, 2019. It matches the date Katya Ivanov was admitted to the hospital."
My chest tightened. I pulled up the corresponding file, scanning the details. "Two hundred thousand euros. Routed through Liechtenstein to a Croatian shell company." I traced the money backward through my notes. "Which received the same amount from an account registered to 'MG Personal Holdings' the day before."
"Marcus Grant," Jack said quietly.
"Marcus Grant." I entered the connection into my database, another link forged in the chain. I glanced at the photo of Katya. See? We're getting closer.