Chapter 2 - The Digital Ghost
The pause that followed Chloe’s question was heavier than concrete. I stared at the glowing red timer on my phone: 01:14… 01:15…
Eleanor finally answered, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. “Julian loves what Harper can do for him. At this stage of his life, with the situation he’s in, that is close enough.”
I stopped recording.
I didn’t cry. The pain had bypassed my tear ducts and settled directly into my marrow. I was no longer a bride. I was a target.
I turned around and walked back to the mirrored elevator. I left the cardigan with the embroidered flowers draped over the chair. Let it sit there as a silent witness.
The drive back to my apartment was a blur of neon signs and rain-slicked asphalt. When I finally walked through my front door, the silence of my home wrapped around me. I stared at the white garment bag hanging from the doorframe. My wedding dress.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. Julian.
I stared at his name, the letters suddenly looking alien. I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate to slow, and swiped to answer.
“Hey, beautiful,” his voice was a warm, familiar rumble. “Just wanted to hear your voice one last time before we’re officially husband and wife. I can’t sleep.”
Bile rose in my throat. He loves what you can do for him.
“I can’t sleep either,” I managed to say, my voice remarkably steady.
“Tomorrow is going to be perfect,” he whispered. “I love you so much, Harp. You’re my whole world.”
“See you at the altar, Julian.” I hung up before he could say another word.
If this had just been about his mother and sister being snobs, I might have fought for him. But Eleanor had mentioned his “mess.” Whatever Julian needs to clear his mess.
Julian had told me his tech startup was on the verge of a massive Series B funding round. He lived in a sleek loft in River North, drove a leased Porsche, and always insisted on paying for expensive dinners. But if Eleanor and Chloe were plotting to steal my modest condo to save him, the startup was a lie.
I walked into the bedroom. Julian had stayed over the previous night and left his leather briefcase tucked under the desk. He always told me it was full of boring NDAs and developer contracts.
I pulled it out. It was locked with a three-digit combination. I tried my birthday. Nothing. His birthday. Nothing.
I paused, thinking about his ego. I rolled the dials to the founding date of his “successful” startup: 0-8-1-5.
The brass clasps sprang open with a sharp click.
Inside, beneath a layer of innocuous printed pitch decks, was a thick manila folder. I opened it, spreading the documents across my duvet cover.
They weren’t NDAs. They were final notices.
There was a massive loan from a private, high-interest lending firm—the kind of firm that breaks kneecaps, not contracts. There was a notice of default on his River North loft. And worse, there was a second mortgage taken out on Eleanor’s Gold Coast condo, signed by both Julian and Eleanor. They were drowning.
But the document that finally broke the dam inside me was at the very bottom. It was a Quitclaim Deed for my Lincoln Park condo. It was completely filled out, transferring fifty percent of the ownership to Julian Mercer. The only thing missing was my signature and a notary stamp.
He had it ready. He was going to slide it in front of me during the honeymoon, just like Eleanor said, wrapped in promises of “building our future together.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, the papers rustling against my legs. They hadn’t just planned to use me; they had meticulously engineered my financial execution.
I looked at the clock. It was 2:15 AM.
I picked up my phone and scrolled to a contact I hadn’t called since my mother’s estate was settled. Arthur Vance, my mother’s ruthless, brilliant estate lawyer.
He wouldn’t appreciate a 2 AM call, but tomorrow, I was supposed to marry a fraud.
“Arthur,” I said when his groggy voice finally answered. “I need an emergency irrevocable trust. And I need the paperwork drawn up before nine o’clock this morning.”
“Harper? Do you know what time it is?” Arthur coughed. “Aren’t you getting married today?”
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“That’s exactly why I’m calling,” I said, my voice hardening into steel. “I need to lock down my assets. Every single penny. Because if I don’t, my groom is going to steal it all.”
Arthur went dead silent on the other end of the line. “Give me fifteen minutes to make some coffee,” he finally said. “And send me everything you have.”
