Chapter 28 — Fractured Calm

The Woman In The File
Her chest rose and fell, nostrils flaring as she met his stare, a mix of rage and jealousy flashing across her features.

“Are you serious?” His voice was quiet but edged, steady, as he set the spoon down carefully and leaned back in his chair.

“I don’t matter to you, do I?” she snapped, her voice cracking. “I wait all day for you, and you go off to meet her, accompany her, like I’m nothing to you?”

“Enough.” His tone cut like a blade, firm and commanding. “I told you it’s fake. These scandals are nothing but weapons. The media spins lies for clicks, and my name gives them blood to feed on. Do you really think I waste time chasing women when I’m the one holding Black Stone together?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his gaze like a vise locking onto her. His mouth curled into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“Don’t ever insult me again by thinking I’d risk everything for a cheap rumor. Because if I wanted another woman, Jenna,” his voice dropped lower, colder, “you wouldn’t be questioning it. You’d already know.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. His words hit her harder than she expected, dragging the air out of her lungs.

Black Stone. Always Black Stone!

She inwardly rolled her eyes, thinking, Does everything always have to be about him and Black Stone?

She slid her empty plate aside, her grip tightening around the edge of the table, nails digging into the polished wood as her chest heaved. “So that’s it?” she said finally, her voice trembling but laced with anger.

“Your empire gets all of you, and I get the scraps? You expect me to swallow these rumors, these pictures, and sit quietly while you remind me how busy you are being the great Evan Grant? Let's say that was a rumor, but what about me? My emotions, my feelings when you don't care about them? When you make me feel like you really have no interest ine?”

Her eyes glistened as she leaned forward, locking onto him with a fire that refused to be put out.

“I don’t care about Black Stone. I care about you. And if you ever make me feel like I don’t matter again,” her voice dropped low and sharp, “I don’t care how powerful you are. I’ll tear down the world you’re building just to remind you who I am.”

“Careful, kitten. You’re talking about burning down the throne you’ll soon sit on. Black Stone isn’t against you; it’s yours as much as mine. Don’t ever forget that.”

Her lips trembled, but she forced the words out, her eyes glossy with unspilled tears.

“All I want is you. Don’t you see? I just want you.”

Her words held him still in his seat. For the first time that night, his rigid posture softened.

“Am I wrong to want your attention? Am I wrong to seek the care of my husband, the one who means everything to me? Your distance… it makes me anxious, it makes me ache.”

He couldn’t respond at first, caught off guard by the raw honesty, but slowly, a dark, satisfied smile spread across his face.

He remained still for a heartbeat, letting her words sink in, before the corner of his mouth curved as if her confession was exactly what he had been waiting to hear.

He dragged his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a sharp echo that lingered for a moment. Jenna didn’t flinch, already stacking the dishes, her movements calm and practiced.

Suddenly, a low vibration broke the quiet. Evan’s phone buzzed in the pocket of his sweatpants.

He fished it out, glanced at the caller ID, and pressed it to his ear as he stopped by the staircase.

“Yeah. What is it now?” he said, his tone casual, almost distracted, while Jenna passed by him, carrying plates toward the kitchen.

“Boss, I’ve sent you the Canadian King’s profile. Check that,” his assistant’s voice came through, steady and businesslike.

“Understood,” Evan replied, already moving toward the study. He ended the call before the other man could say more.

Holding the phone tightly in his hand, he turned and headed toward the study. The room greeted him with its familiar scent of leather and paper.

He moved quickly to the desk, flipped open his laptop, and the soft blue light washed over his face as he sank into the chair, ready to dive into the work that couldn’t wait.

A new message blinked in his inbox: Venn_Alastair_Profile.pdf. The file his assistant had mentioned.

He clicked on it.

The document opened, full of names, records, and cold facts.

Full Name: Alastair Venn
Alias: “The Canadian King”
Assets: Riverview Estate, Westmount, Black Harbor Holdings, Northern Transport Ltd.
Properties: Eight listed under other names, four hidden.
Criminal Records: Money laundering, smuggling, human trafficking.
Associates: Miguel Ramires (convicted)

Evan read carefully, his eyes steady. Each line told him the same thing: this man was powerful, rich, and dangerous.

He scrolled through photos of mansions, bank reports, and a few police files. There was even a report connecting Venn’s shipping company to missing cargo along the St. Lawrence River.

Evan’s jaw tightened. This was no small player. But that made him useful.

His gaze halted when a new name appeared in the document.

Lydia Harrow, Trustee. Under investigation.

Her file opened with a single click. A sharp-featured woman stared back from the attached photo, composed and confident, the kind of person who looked untouchable in public.

But beneath that polished image, the notes told a different story: unexplained bank transfers, silent partnerships, multiple offshore accounts registered under shell companies.

Evan leaned closer, scanning each line carefully. “Trustee,” he muttered. “So you handle his money.”

His mind ran through the possibilities. If Lydia managed Venn’s assets, she could be the key to every hidden trail, to every name that mattered.

He reached for his phone beside the laptop and called Marco.

“Boss,” Marco’s voice came through, clear but a little rough with sleep.

“I found something,” Evan said, his voice low, eyes still on the screen. “A woman named Lydia Harrow. She’s listed as a trustee under Venn’s company in Montreal, but she’s already under investigation. I want her checked.”

Marco’s tone shifted instantly, sharp and awake. “Understood, Boss. You want me to fly there or start remotely?”

Evan pushed back his chair and stood, pacing toward the wall-length window that overlooked the city. The glass reflected the faint glow of his laptop behind him, its cold light cutting through the dark.

“Start online first,” he said firmly, eyes on the skyline. “Do it quietly. Begin with her corporate trail, company filings, business directories, anything tied to Black Harbor Holdings. Find which offices carry her name and what role she officially holds.”

“Got it,” Marco acknowledged. Evan heard the faint shuffle of movement on the other end, as if Marco were heading to his workspace.

“Then trace her presence, anything public,” Evan continued. “Articles, event records, social posts, charity lists. If she’s appeared anywhere in the last year, I want it logged and cross-checked.”

“Understood.”

Evan rubbed his jaw, still watching the skyline. “When you’ve gathered enough, map her movements, offices, routines, the people she meets. I want her pattern before we send anyone closer.”

“Copy that, Boss. Clean search only. No contact.”

“Exactly.” Evan’s tone cooled. “She doesn’t need to know she’s being watched. And Marco,” he paused, eyes narrowing at his own reflection, “if new names surface through her, report them to me immediately.”

“I’ll update you soon.”

Evan ended the call and stood there for a long moment, the city lights flickering against the glass. He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening as his thoughts ran ahead.

Then he turned back toward the desk, where Lydia’s image still glowed on the screen, calm, confident, untouched.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Let’s see how loyal you really are, Ms. Harrow,” he murmured under his breath.

He closed the file, but the laptop screen stayed lit, its faint blue glow washing over the desk as the room fell silent.