Chapter 4: The Crack in the Foundation
The lobby of the Ashworth house was empty when I crossed it.
A single lamp burned near the front door.
The wedding flowers were still arranged on the entry table — white roses, already beginning to curl at the edges.
I walked past them without stopping.
Outside, the car I'd arranged was waiting.
My driver, Paul, didn't ask questions.
He opened the door, saw my face, and said only: "Where to?"
"The apartment on Mercer."
He nodded and pulled away from the curb.
I sat in the back seat in my wedding dress and called Diane back.
"Who inside the company?" I said before she could speak.
"We don't have a confirmed name yet.
The research firm used an intermediary.
But the instruction originated from a Voss Capital internal email address."
"Which one?"
"It was routed through the general executive inbox.
Someone with access to that account sent the initial brief to the research firm eleven weeks ago."
Eleven weeks.
That was before Grant had even proposed.
"Someone inside Voss set this up," I said.
"They handed Grant the information.
He used it to time the proposal."
"That's what it looks like."
"Who has access to the executive inbox?"
"Four people.
You.
Me.
Your assistant, Priya.
And your head of operations, Daniel Forde."
I looked out the window.
The city moved past in streaks of orange and white.
Daniel Forde had been with Voss Capital for seven years.
He had sat across from me at a hundred meetings.
He had a daughter in middle school.
He kept a photograph of her on his desk facing outward, so visitors could see it.
"Pull Daniel's access logs for the last four months," I said.
"Everything.
Email, file access, system logins.
Don't tell him."
"Already started," Diane said.
"There's something else."
There was always something else.
"Grant Ashworth's family has debt," she said.
"Significant debt.
The father — Harold Ashworth — took out three loans against the house over the past five years.
Two of them are in default.
The third comes due in February."
I thought about Harold sitting at the head of the wedding table that afternoon, raising a glass, smiling at me with his hand on Grant's shoulder.
"How much?"
"Combined, just over four hundred thousand."
"And Grant knew about the debt."
"Grant co-signed the third loan."
Paul slowed for a light.
I watched a couple cross the street in front of us, laughing, the woman pulling the man by the hand.
"So the plan," I said slowly, "was to marry me before I found out who had leaked my identity.
Keep me in the dark long enough for the marriage to be legally established.
Then, once we were husband and wife—"
"Community property considerations," Diane said.
"Or simply leverage.
A wealthy wife is a different kind of asset than a wealthy girlfriend."
"He didn't marry me," I said.
"He acquired me."
The light changed.
Paul drove.
"Diane.
Who else knows about the debt?"
"As of tonight?
Only us."
"Keep it that way until Monday.
I want to understand the full picture before anyone moves."
"Understood.
Isabelle—" She paused.
"Are you all right?"
I looked down at my dress.
The skirt had picked up a faint gray mark near the hem — from the floor of the bedroom, most likely, when I'd lifted the bucket.
"I will be," I said.
Paul pulled up to the Mercer Street building.
He came around and opened my door without being asked.
I stepped out onto the pavement.
A woman passing on the sidewalk glanced at my dress and smiled, the automatic smile people give brides, assuming happiness.
I smiled back.
Upstairs, I poured a glass of water and sat at my kitchen table with my laptop open.
I pulled up the Voss Capital internal directory and found Daniel Forde's profile.
Seven years of performance reviews.
All excellent.
A salary I had personally approved three times.
I scrolled to his emergency contact.
His wife's name was listed first.
Below it, a second contact: Grant A.
Ashworth.
Listed as a personal reference.
I stared at that name for a long time.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
May you like
*You should have just washed the clothes, Isabelle.
This is going to get much worse for you before it gets better.*
