Chapter 4 - The Mistress's Playbook
I stared at the flash drive sitting on the scarred wooden table of my grandmother’s kitchen.
James had hidden this in my coat. He must have slipped it into the lining weeks ago, anticipating that the walls were closing in, knowing I would eventually take my favorite coat if I ever left.
He didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth, but he trusted me enough to hold his only insurance policy.
I grabbed my laptop, my hands shaking so violently I could barely type my password. I plugged the drive into the USB port.
A single, heavily encrypted folder appeared on the screen. It requested a password.
I cursed, hitting the table with the heel of my hand. James was paranoid. He wouldn't use something simple like a birthday or an anniversary.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. I thought about the man who woke up terrified in the middle of the night. The man who hid his vulnerability behind expensive suits and confident smiles.
What was the one thing he never let anyone else see?
I opened my eyes. I typed slowly on the keyboard.
Iamsocared. (I am scared).
I hit enter.
The folder unlocked.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
Inside the folder wasn't just financial documents. It was a terrifying, meticulous chronicle of a hostile takeover from the inside out.
There were hundreds of emails, downloaded directly from Nicole’s private server. But she wasn't emailing James. She was emailing a man named Marcus Vance, the head of a notorious Chicago real estate syndicate.
I clicked on the most recent email, dated a week before I discovered the affair.
The target is increasingly reliant on my financial projections. His anxiety is escalating precisely on schedule with the adjusted medication dosages. I will initiate the transfer of the restaurant assets to the shell accounts next Tuesday. His wife remains oblivious and easily manipulated by his erratic behavior. Once the funds are secured, I will trigger the audit and leave them both to take the fall. The restaurants will be ours.
My blood turned to ice.
She hadn't just manipulated his finances. She had manipulated his medication.
I thought back to the panic attacks that had grown more frequent and more severe over the last six months. The terrifying episodes that drove James further into his shell, making him rely entirely on the one person who seemed unaffected by his weakness: Nicole.
She was poisoning his mind to steal his empire, and framing me to ensure no one investigated the missing money.
I grabbed the laptop and shoved it into my bag. I couldn't go to the police. If Detective Reynolds was on the level, she’d confiscate the drive and it could take months to prove it wasn't fabricated. If she was on Marcus Vance’s payroll, the drive would disappear, and I would be arrested for forgery.
I needed someone who understood the dark, corrupt underbelly of Chicago’s financial elite. Someone who hated Marcus Vance as much as I currently hated Nicole.
I drove to a towering glass skyscraper in the financial district, bypassing the main reception desk and marching directly toward the private executive elevators.
"Ma'am, you can't go up there!" a security guard yelled, rushing toward me.
I ignored him, swiping a high-level access card I had kept on my keychain since James and I were first married. The elevator doors chimed and slid shut just as the guard reached them.
I rode the elevator to the penthouse floor.
I burst through the heavy mahogany doors into a sprawling, opulent office.
Sitting behind a massive desk, nursing a glass of scotch and looking mildly annoyed by the interruption, was Arthur Sterling. He was James’s former mentor, a ruthless venture capitalist who had a spectacular, bitter falling out with Marcus Vance a decade ago.
Arthur looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing as he recognized me.
"Rachel," Arthur said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "I just saw the news about your husband’s very public arrest. I must admit, I didn't expect you to come crying to me for bail money."
"I don't want your money, Arthur," I said, striding across the room and slamming my laptop onto his desk. "I want your lawyers. And your connections to the US Attorney's office."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. "And why would I offer you my legal team to save a man who refused to sell me his flagship restaurant three years ago?"
"Because," I said, opening the laptop and pulling up the emails, "saving James is just the byproduct. What I’m offering you is the head of Marcus Vance on a silver platter."
Arthur’s amusement vanished instantly. The old, predatory shark leaned forward, his eyes locking onto the screen.
He read the emails in silence. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner of the room was the only sound.
Finally, Arthur leaned back, a slow, terrifying smile spreading across his weathered face.
"Your husband is a fool for letting a twenty-two-year-old girl orchestrate a hostile takeover," Arthur mused, tapping his manicured fingers on the desk. "But you, Rachel... you are far more interesting than I gave you credit for."
May you like
He picked up his desk phone.
"Get me the US Attorney on a secure line," Arthur barked into the receiver. He looked back at me. "We have a lot of work to do before the banks open tomorrow morning."
