Chapter 163 She Will Know What to Do
Chapter 163 She Will Know What to Do
Nora only got four hours of sleep.
She was already awake when the alarm went off, lying in bed staring at the patch of light on the ceiling — daylight now, much brighter than it had been in the early hours, the shape stretched from a single point into a narrow strip.
Storm's message came in at exactly nine o'clock.
[Todd arrives at ten.]
Nora rolled out of bed and opened the wardrobe.
Three changes of clothes hung inside, all ones she'd brought herself. On the far right was an extra garment bag.
She unzipped it.
The velvet dress from last night.
Someone had hung it up at some point. It had been pressed — every crease gone, the fabric smooth as new. A card was tucked inside the bag, no writing on it, just a very small embossed pattern.
Nora turned the card over, then turned it back.
She recognized the pattern. She'd seen it last night. When Calla led Julian across the hall, Oliver's cufflinks had the same design — the Percy Group's family crest.
She slipped the card back into the garment bag and stood in front of the wardrobe for three seconds.
Then she took out the velvet dress.
——
10:02 a.m.
Oliver's private meeting room was on the third floor of the main building. The hallway was long, lined with dark gray carpet that swallowed every footstep.
Wyatt was waiting at the door. When he saw Nora and Todd behind her, he stepped aside and pushed it open.
The room was small. A long table, six chairs, three cups of hot coffee.
Oliver was already seated on the right.
His coffee hadn't been touched — sitting dead center on its coaster, the steam rising in a perfectly even curl. He was wearing a dark gray shirt, buttoned to the second button, his posture relaxed but grounded — not the kind of relaxed that reads as careless, more like someone who always knows exactly how to hold himself in any room.
Nora walked to the table and pulled out the middle chair.
Todd followed. He scanned the room — curtains half-drawn, a hidden door on the left leading to an inner room, and on the table, besides the three coffees, a light blue folder.
He sat down on the left.
Three people.
The table wasn't wide. With all three of them seated, the distance between each person was just enough to pass something across, not enough to reach the other person.
Todd looked up first, toward Oliver.
Oliver glanced back.
It was brief. But Nora was sitting in the middle, and both lines of sight crossed almost at the same moment, meeting somewhere in the air between them.
No pleasantries. No small talk. Not even a "you made it."
In a fraction of a second, the two of them exchanged something — you know why I'm here, and I know why you called me.
Nora picked up her coffee and took a sip. The temperature was just right.
Oliver slid the folder to the center of the table.
"Five years ago — the second time the Percy family and the Gray family crossed paths. Julian was the go-between. On the surface it was an overseas real estate acquisition — a mixed-use development in Vancouver's west side. Total deal value, one hundred and twenty million USD. The Percy family put in thirty percent, the Gray family put in seventy."
He turned to the third page and pointed to a line.
"After the funds came in, they went through two rounds of clearing and ended up in a BXI offshore trust. Standard structure — three layers of SPV nesting, all the beneficiary information for the intermediate entities fully documented. But the final beneficiary field—"
His finger landed on an empty box.
"Was wiped."
Nora leaned in to look. The table was printed clearly — every number and signature in place — but the last field was blank. Not left empty. Filled in and then removed by technical means. There was a faint impression on the paper where something had been written.
Todd didn't reach for the folder. He pulled a manila envelope from his briefcase, opened it, and laid the documents out beside Oliver's.
Two sets of papers, side by side on the table.
"The clearing bank." Todd's finger moved to one line. "HSBC Singapore, account ending 7703."
Nora's eyes moved between the two documents.
On Oliver's — Clearing bank: HSBC Singapore, 7703.
On Todd's — the clearing records for The Ashes' first round of seed funding. Same bank. Same account ending.
The dates were eleven months apart. The amounts were in different ranges, but the first eight digits of the clearing code were identical.
"Same pipeline," Todd said, pushing both documents toward Nora.
Nora looked at the code again. First eight digits, exact match. That wasn't something coincidence could explain.
"So the money from that deal five years ago — the Percy family and Gray family partnership — it ended up flowing into The Ashes." She said it out loud.
Oliver neither confirmed nor denied it.
"I hadn't taken over the Percy Group yet when this transaction went through. My father handled it." He paused. "My father passed away three years ago. He never mentioned anything about this deal to me."
Todd leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach.
"Before he died — did your father ever have direct contact with Atlas?"
The question landed, and the room went quiet for two seconds.
Oliver didn't answer right away.
He pulled an envelope from beside the table.
It was old. The paper had yellowed, the corners creased and worn, like something that had been taken out and looked at many times before being put away again. No name on the front, just a stamp — Swiss, the denomination too faded to read.
He pushed it across.
"When I took over the Percy Group three years ago, I went through my father's private safe. I found this at the very bottom."
Nora picked up the envelope. It was light — just one sheet inside.
She took it out.
The paper had been folded once. When she opened it, there was a single line of handwriting.
Written by hand. Blue-black ink, steady strokes, even spacing between each word — the kind of handwriting that told you the person who wrote it had a very calm mind.
— "If I'm gone, please return 'Lotus Rain' to Nory. She'll know what to do."
Nora's fingers tightened.
She pressed a faint crease into the paper.
She knew this handwriting.
When she was little, Atlas taught her how to write the letter R. He would hold her wrist gently and guide her stroke by stroke.
Atlas had a unique quirk in his handwriting: the tail of every R curled slightly upward at the end. Hardly anyone else noticed it, but she had studied his script for more than a decade. She could tell it was his work even with her eyes closed.
It was Atlas's handwriting.
She turned the envelope over.
Two stamps on the back — one was Atlas's personal seal, seal script, vermillion red. The other was a receipt stamp, John's name and a date.
Nora set the letter down on the table. She put her hands on her knees and said nothing.
Todd, beside her, hadn't moved.