Chapter 30
I caught myself on the doorframe, fingers digging into painted wood that probably cost more than my entire childhood home.
Dominic's hand was on my elbow, steadying me, but I couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except the those words settling into my bones like concrete.
"Sloane." Dominic's voice came from somewhere far away. "What did he say?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"He—" The word scraped out. "He made me his accomplice."
"What are you talking about?"
I held up my phone with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking, the banking app still glowing on the screen. Dominic took it, his jaw tightening as he scrolled through the deposits. One after another after another. Small amounts. Nothing that would trigger alerts. But they added up.
They added up to enough.
"When did these start?" His voice had gone flat, the way it did when he was working through a problem.
"I don't know." I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to think through the panic. "Months ago? I never checked that account. It was just—it was supposed to be for emergencies."
"What account? You did not set this up?"
"No. Yeah. I mean—" I dropped my hands. "I opened it when I was eighteen. For college savings. But I never used it because I never had anything to save, so..."
So I'd forgotten it existed.
That tracked.
Dominic was already moving, phone to his ear, pacing across the foyer with sharp, controlled steps. "I need you at the house. Now. Yes, I understand what time it is. I do not care."
He ended the call. Made another.
I slid down the doorframe until I was sitting on the marble floor, my back against the wall, staring at nothing. The cold seeped through my jeans but I couldn't make myself move.
Marcus had been planning this. For months. Maybe from the moment I'd submitted my application to work at the estate. He'd taken my social security number from the hiring paperwork, my bank information from the direct deposit forms, and he'd built a cage so perfect I hadn't even seen the bars.
"Sloane."
I looked up. Dominic was crouched in front of me, his expression carefully neutral in that way that meant he was barely holding it together.
"My investigator is on his way," he said. "And my lawyers. We are going to fix this."
"You can't fix this." The words came out hollow. "He's been depositing money for months. There's a paper trail. It looks like I've been working with him."
"You have not been working with him."
"Yeah, no, I know that." I laughed, and it sounded wrong. "But how do I prove it? How do I prove I didn't know about money showing up in an account I never checked?"
Dominic's jaw worked. He didn't have an answer.
That tracked too.
The investigator arrived first—a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair and the kind of face that had seen everything twice. She set up in Dominic's study, laptop open, fingers flying across the keys while I sat on the leather couch and tried not to throw up.
"Talk me through your banking history," she said without looking up.
"I don't have one." I picked at the chipped black polish on my thumbnail. "I mean, I have the one checking account for my paychecks. And that savings account I forgot about. That's it."
"Credit cards?"
"One. I pay it off every month."
"Loans?"
"Student loans. Obviously."
She nodded, still typing. "And you never noticed these deposits?"
"I told you. I forgot the account existed."
"That is going to be a problem." She finally looked at me, her expression neutral. "The prosecution will argue that no one forgets about money appearing in their account."
"Well, I did."
"I believe you." She turned the laptop toward me. "But belief is not evidence. Look at this."
The screen showed a spreadsheet. Dates, amounts, source accounts. The deposits had started seven months ago—two weeks after I'd accepted the job at the estate. Small amounts at first. Two hundred dollars. Three fifty. Nothing that would trigger alerts or seem suspicious.
Then they'd gotten bigger.
"The source accounts are shell companies," the investigator said. "All registered in Delaware. All connected to Marcus Ashford through a web of holding companies and trusts. He was careful. But not careful enough."
"So you can prove he did this?"
"I can prove he controls the companies that made the deposits." She closed the laptop. "I cannot prove you did not know about them."
My stomach dropped.
"However," she continued, "I can establish a pattern of behavior. Marcus has done this before—used employees as unwitting accomplices to move money. We have three other cases from the past decade. None of them went to trial because Marcus settled quietly."
"So what does that mean for me?"
"It means we have precedent. It means we can argue this is his MO." She leaned back in her chair. "It also means he is very good at this, and he will have covered his tracks thoroughly."
The door opened. Dominic walked in with two people in expensive suits—a man and a woman, both carrying leather briefcases that probably cost more than my car.
"These are my attorneys," Dominic said. "Sarah Chen and Michael Rodriguez. They specialize in white-collar criminal defense."
Sarah Chen sat down across from me, her expression kind but professional. "Ms. Whitley, I need you to be completely honest with me. Is there any communication between you and Marcus Ashford that could be construed as you agreeing to accept payments?"
"No."
"Any emails? Text messages? Verbal conversations?"
"No. I barely talked to him." I wrapped my arms around myself. "He was just—he was Dominic's uncle. He was around sometimes. That's it."
"Did he ever discuss business with you? Ask about your financial situation?"
I started to shake my head, then stopped.
"What?" Dominic's voice was sharp.
"He—" I pressed my fingers against my temples, trying to remember. "Once. Maybe two months ago? He asked if I was doing okay financially. If the job was paying enough."
"What did you say?"
"I said I was fine. Because I was." I looked up at Sarah. "That's it. That was the whole conversation."
She exchanged a glance with Michael. "That could be a problem. He could argue that was him offering to supplement your income, and you accepting."
"But I didn't accept anything. I didn't even know what he was talking about."
"I understand. But in court, it becomes a question of interpretation." She pulled out a legal pad. "We need to establish your character. Your history. Everything that proves you would not knowingly participate in embezzlement."
So I told them. About growing up in Southie with a father who drank too much and a mother who left. About working three jobs to pay for community college. About the sparrow tattoo on my wrist that I'd gotten the day I turned eighteen because it meant freedom, meant getting out.
About how I'd never taken anything I hadn't earned.
Michael took notes. Sarah asked questions. Dominic stood by the window, his back to the room, shoulders rigid.
"This is good," Sarah said finally. "Your background actually helps us. You have a documented history of financial struggle and independence. It supports the narrative that you would not risk everything for relatively small payments."
"How small are we talking?" I asked.
She consulted her notes. "Total deposits over seven months: forty-three thousand dollars."
The room tilted.
"That's not small," I whispered.
"In the context of embezzlement cases, it is." Michael's voice was matter-of-fact. "Marcus Ashford is suspected of moving millions. Forty-three thousand is pocket change. Which actually supports your case—why would you risk federal charges for such a small amount?"
"Because I'm poor?" The words came out bitter. "Because forty-three thousand dollars is more money than I've ever had in my life?"
"That is not the narrative we are going to present." Sarah's voice was firm. "We are going to present you as an honest employee who was targeted and manipulated by a sophisticated criminal. Someone who had no knowledge of these deposits and no reason to check an account she had not used in years."
"Will that work?"
She hesitated. Just for a second.
That was answer enough.
They left after midnight. The investigator promised to have a full report by morning. The lawyers promised to file motions, to build a defense, to do everything they could.
None of them promised I wouldn't go to prison.
I sat in Dominic's study after they left, staring at my phone. I had seventeen missed calls from Reese. I should call her back. I should tell her what was happening.
Instead, I pulled up my banking app again, scrolling through the deposits like picking at a scab.
"You should try to sleep."
I looked up. Dominic stood in the doorway, still wearing the same clothes from earlier, his tie loosened and his hair disheveled from running his hands through it.
"Yeah, no, that's not happening."
He crossed the room, sat down in the chair across from me. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
"I should have seen this coming," he said finally.
"How? You're not psychic."
"I know Marcus. I know how he operates." His voice was tight. "I should have anticipated—"
"Stop." I set my phone down. "This isn't your fault."
"It is my family. My company. My—" He stopped, mouth tightened.
"Your what?"
"My responsibility." He looked at me, and something in his expression made my chest ache. "You came here because of me. You stayed because of me. And now you are paying the price for my family's sins."
"I came here because I needed a job." The lie tasted familiar. "And I stayed because—"
Because of you.
I didn't say it. Couldn't say it.
"I am going to fix this," Dominic said. "Whatever it takes. My lawyers, my money, my reputation—all of it. I will make sure you walk away from this free and clear."
"And then what?" The question came out sharper than I meant it to. "I owe you everything? I spend the rest of my life grateful that you saved me?"
"That is not—"
"That's exactly what it is." I stood up, needing to move, needing space. "Don't you see? This is what I was afraid of. This is why I—"
I stopped. Pressed my palms against my eyes.
"Why you what?" His voice was quiet.
"Why I can't let myself need you." The words scraped out. "Because needing people means owing them. And owing them means they own you."
"I do not want to own you, Sloane."
"Maybe not. But you will." I dropped my hands, looked at him. "If you pay for my lawyers, if you fix this, if you save me—I'll owe you everything. And that's not love. That's just another kind of cage."
Dominic stood slowly, his expression unreadable. "So what are you saying?"
"I don't know." My voice cracked. "I don't know what I'm saying."
He crossed the room, stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.
"I could not save Victoria," he said quietly. "I could not save my marriage. I could not stop my uncle from destroying everything my family built." His hand came up, fingers brushing my cheek. "But I can save you. If you let me."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you face this alone." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "And I watch you go to prison for crimes you did not commit. Is that what you want?"
No.
Yes.
I didn't know.
"I need to think," I whispered.
He nodded, dropped his hand, stepped back. "Take all the time you need."
But we both knew I didn't have time. Marcus was out there somewhere, pulling strings, building his case. And I was trapped between two impossible choices: accept Dominic's help and lose myself, or refuse it and lose everything.
I called Reese at two in the morning from the guest room Dominic had set me up in. She answered on the first ring.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"It's complicated."
"Sloane." Her voice was sharp. "I've been calling you for hours. What's going on?"
So I told her. All of it. The deposits, the frame, Marcus's call. By the time I finished, my throat was raw and my eyes were burning.
"Jesus Christ," Reese breathed. "Sloane, you need to—"
"I know. I need to accept Dominic's help. I need to let his lawyers handle it. I need to—"
"Actually, I was going to say you need to run."
I blinked. "What?"
"Run. Get out of there. Go somewhere Marcus can't find you."
"That makes me look guilty."
"You already look guilty." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "You have forty-three thousand dollars in your account that you can't explain. You worked for the family. You had access. Running might be your only option."
"I can't just—"
"Why not? What's keeping you there?"
Dominic.
I didn't say it. Didn't have to.
"Oh, Sloane." Reese's voice softened. "You're in love with him."
"I'm not—"
"Don't lie to me. I've known you since we were fifteen. I know what you sound like when you're in love." She paused. "And I know what you sound like when you're scared of it."
I pressed my forehead against the window, staring out at the dark grounds. "It doesn't matter how I feel. If I accept his help, I'm trapped. If I don't, I go to prison."
"Or you run."
"And spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder? That's not freedom, Reese. That's just a different kind of cage."
"Maybe. But at least it's a cage you chose."
I closed my eyes. She was right. She was always right.
"I have to go," I said.
"Sloane—"
"I'll call you tomorrow. I promise."
I ended the call before she could argue.
The room was too quiet. Too big. Too full of expensive things I was afraid to touch. I sat on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed, and tried to think through the panic.
Running meant guilt. Staying meant debt. There was no good option. No way out that didn't cost me everything.
My phone buzzed. A text from Dominic: Are you all right?
I stared at the message for a long time before typing back: No. But I will be.
Another lie. I was getting good at those.
Morning came too fast. I found Dominic in the kitchen, already dressed in a suit, coffee in hand. He looked like he hadn't slept either.
"The lawyers are coming back at nine," he said. "They want to go over strategy."
"Okay."
"Sloane—"
"I need to tell you something." I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold steady. "About why I really came here. About my father."
His expression didn't change. "I know about your father."
"You—what?"
"I had you investigated before I hired you." He set down his coffee. "I know he tried to extort money from Ashford Industries. I know he claimed my father owed him for an injury that never happened. I know you came here looking for answers."
The floor dropped out from under me.
"You knew?" My voice came out strangled. "This whole time, you knew?"
"Yes."
"And you hired me anyway?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He looked at me for a long moment, something complicated moving behind his eyes. "Because you were not your father. Because you deserved a chance. Because—"
The study door burst open.
The investigator stood there, her face pale, her phone clutched in her hand.
"We have a problem," she said. "Marcus made bail an hour ago. And he's not at his apartment."