Chapter 35
The key to the locked drawer hung on a chain around Dominic's neck, and his hands shook as he removed it.
I'd gotten Iris to sleep an hour ago, her face still blotchy and wet against the pillow. She'd clung to my hand until her breathing evened out, and I'd stayed another twenty minutes just to be sure. When I'd finally emerged from her room, Dominic had been waiting in the hallway, his back against the wall like he needed it to stay upright.
"Come with me," he'd said.
Now we stood in his study, the door closed behind us, and he was fumbling with the chain. The key was small and brass, old-fashioned. It caught the lamplight as he finally got it free.
"You don't have to—" I started.
"Yeah, no, I do." He crossed to the mahogany desk that dominated the room. "You deserve to know everything. Before you decide."
"Decide what?"
He didn't answer. Just pulled open the bottom drawer—the one I'd noticed was always locked—and reached inside. When his hand emerged, it held a single envelope, yellowed at the edges. The handwriting on the front was shaky, barely legible.
For Dominic. To be opened after my death.
My stomach dropped. "That's—"
"My father's last letter." Dominic set it on the desk between us like it might explode. "He wrote it three days before he died. Made his nurse promise to give it to me at the funeral."
I stared at the envelope. The paper was creased, worn soft in places like it had been handled too many times. "You've read it."
"Every night for six months." His voice was flat. "Until I couldn't anymore."
The the quiet held. Outside, a car alarm went off, distant and tinny.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.
"Because you need to understand." He pushed the envelope toward me. "What I've been trying to do. Why I—" He stopped, his jaw working. "Just read it."
I picked up the envelope. The paper felt fragile, like it might disintegrate in my hands. Inside was a single sheet, covered in that same shaky handwriting. I had to squint to make out the words.
Dominic—
If you're reading this, I'm dead, and you're finally free of me. I don't expect forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But you deserve the truth, even if it destroys what little you thought you knew about your father.
I stole James Chen's patent. You know that part. What you don't know is that James and I were friends once. Real friends. We met at MIT, worked on the initial concept together. He was brilliant—more brilliant than I ever was. The kind of mind that comes along once in a generation.
He was also in love with a woman named Sarah Whitley. She worked in the registrar's office. I watched him fall for her over the course of a semester, watched him become someone different around her. Softer. Happier. He was going to propose.
My hands started shaking. I gripped the paper harder.
When I realized the patent could be worth millions, I made a choice. I told myself it was business. That James was too idealistic, too soft to capitalize on what we'd built. That I'd be doing him a favor by taking it off his hands and giving him a small cut.
But that's not why I did it.
I did it because I couldn't stand watching him have everything—the brilliant mind, the woman who looked at him like he hung the moon, the future that should have been mine. So I didn't just steal the patent. I destroyed him.
I filed first, then I spread rumors. Told people at the university that James had been stealing research, falsifying data. I had connections he didn't—money, family name, the right friends in the right places. Within six months, he couldn't get a job anywhere in the field. His reputation was ruined.
Sarah left him. I don't know if she believed the rumors or if she just couldn't handle the pressure, but she disappeared. James tried to fight me for a while, hired lawyers he couldn't afford, but I buried him in legal fees until he had nothing left.
The last time I saw him, he was working as a night janitor at a tech startup in Cambridge. He looked at me like I was something he'd scraped off his shoe. He said, "I hope it was worth it, Richard. I hope every dollar you make off my work keeps you up at night."
It did. It does.
I built an empire on his stolen brilliance, and I destroyed a good man to do it. I told myself I'd make it right someday, that I'd find him and offer restitution, but I was a coward. I waited too long.
James Chen died eight years ago. Liver failure, according to the death certificate my investigator found. He died alone in a studio apartment in Dorchester, and Sarah Whitley died three years after that. Cancer. She had a daughter.
Find them, Dominic. Find James's family—his daughter if he had one, his siblings, anyone who's left. Tell them I'm sorry. Give them what they're owed. Don't let my sins destroy you too.
I was a bastard and a thief, but you're better than me. You always have been. Don't let my legacy poison everything you touch.
—Dad
I read it twice. Then a third time, because my brain couldn't process what I was seeing.
"James Chen didn't have a daughter," I said finally. My voice sounded strange, distant. "He never married Sarah. She left him before—"
"Before my father destroyed his life." Dominic's hands were flat on the desk, his knuckles white. "I know."
"My mom—" I stopped. Started again. "She was pregnant when she left him. She never told him."
"I know that too."
The room tilted. I sat down hard in the leather chair behind me, the letter still clutched in my hand. "How long have you known?"
"That James Chen was your father?" Dominic moved around the desk, but he didn't sit. Just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest like he was holding himself together. "Eight months. My investigator found your mother's death certificate, traced it back to Sarah Whitley who worked at MIT in 1993. The timeline matched. Then he found your birth certificate—father listed as unknown, but your mother had kept a box of letters from James. Love letters. They were in a storage unit in Quincy."
"You went through my mom's stuff." It wasn't a question.
"I paid the back fees on the unit and had everything catalogued. The letters are in a safe deposit box downtown. They're yours whenever you want them."
I couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in, the air too thick. "You've known for eight months that your father destroyed mine. That he's the reason my mom ran. That he's the reason I grew up—" I stopped, my throat closing.
"Poor," Dominic finished quietly. "The reason you grew up poor and angry and convinced you weren't worth anything."
"Don't." The word came out sharp. "Don't pretend you understand."
"I don't." He finally sat, but not in the chair across from me. On the edge of the desk, close enough that I could see the exhaustion carved into his face. "I can't. But I've been trying to make it right."
"By hiring me." The pieces were clicking together, each one making me feel sicker. "By bringing me into your house. By—" I stopped, something ugly twisting in my chest. "Was any of it real?"
"All of it." His voice cracked. "That's the problem."
"I had a plan," Dominic said. He wasn't looking at me anymore. His gaze was fixed on the window, on the city lights beyond. "I was going to set up a restitution fund. Something substantial—forty percent of the company's value, like my father suggested. I'd find James Chen's family, present them with the offer, and finally clear the debt."
"Forty percent." I laughed, but it came out wrong. Bitter. "That's what I'm worth to you? A line item in your redemption arc?"
"No." He turned then, and the look on his face made my breath catch. "That's what you're owed. What your father was owed. It's not about worth, Sloane. It's about justice."
"Justice." I tasted the word, found it sour. "You want to write me a check and call it justice?"
"I want to give you what should have been yours from the beginning." His hands curled into fists on his thighs. "Your father's brilliance built this company. My father stole it, destroyed him, and left you with nothing. I can't fix that. I can't bring him back or give you the childhood you deserved. But I can give you what's legally, morally yours."
The letter was still in my hand, the paper soft and worn. I set it down carefully on the desk between us. "Why didn't you just tell me? From the beginning. Why the job, the contract, all the—" I gestured vaguely at the space between us. "Why make it so complicated?"
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Because I was afraid you'd refuse."
"Refuse."
"The money. The restitution." He stood, started pacing. Three steps to the window, three steps back. "I'd watched you for weeks before I made the offer. Had my investigator compile reports on your life, your work, your habits. You were proud. Stubborn. The kind of person who'd rather starve than accept charity."
"It's not charity if it's owed."
"You didn't know it was owed." He stopped pacing, faced me. "If I'd approached you as Richard Ashford's son with a check and a story about stolen patents, what would you have done?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because he was right, and we both knew it. I would have told him to go to hell. Would have assumed it was some kind of scam or guilt trip or—
"That tracks," I said quietly.
"So I hired you instead." He sat back down on the edge of the desk, closer now. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, see the shadow of stubble on his jaw. "Told myself it was strategic. That I'd get you in the house, let you see that we weren't monsters, and then when the time was right, I'd explain everything. You'd accept the money because you'd understand it wasn't charity. It was restitution."
"But then Iris needed me."
"Yeah." The word came out rough. "Then Iris needed you, and you were so good with her. So patient and real and—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I told myself I'd wait. That I couldn't drop this on you while you were helping my daughter heal. That it would be manipulative, coercive. So I waited."
"And fell in love with me."
The silence that followed was deafening. Dominic's hands gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white.
"Yes," he said finally. "I fell in love with you. And then I couldn't find the words. Because how do you tell someone that everything started as a lie? That you hired them because of a debt, kept them because of guilt, and somewhere along the way it became real but you can't prove it? How do you—" His voice broke. "How do you ask someone to trust you when you've been lying to them from the beginning?"
I should have been angry. Should have felt betrayed, manipulated, used. But all I felt was tired. Bone-deep, exhausted tired.
"Your father's letter," I said. "The part about not letting his sins destroy you. Is that what this is? You trying to save yourself?"
"Maybe." He looked at me then, really looked at me, and his eyes were red-rimmed. "Probably. I don't know anymore. I just know that I can't keep carrying this. The guilt, the secrets, the weight of what he did. It's killing me, Sloane. And I'm terrified that it's going to kill us too."
I stood. Walked to the window. The city stretched out below us, all glittering lights and dark spaces between. Somewhere out there, my father had died alone. Somewhere out there, my mother had worked herself to death trying to give me a better life than the one Richard Ashford had stolen from us.
"I need to know something," I said without turning around. "The legal documents you gave me. The ones that prove my claim to forty percent of the company. Did you do that before or after you fell in love with me?"
"After." His voice was closer now. He'd stood, moved toward me. "Three weeks ago. I had my lawyer draw them up, signed them, and put them in the safe. I was going to give them to you that night—the night of the gala. But then Marcus showed up, and everything went to hell, and I—" He stopped. "I was a coward. Again."
"You gave them to me tonight."
"Because you deserved to know. Before you decided whether to stay."
I turned. He was right behind me, close enough to touch. His tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Stay," I repeated.
"With me. With Iris. With—" He gestured vaguely at the room, the house, the life he was offering. "All of it. I know I don't deserve it. I know I've lied and manipulated and—"
"You were trying to make it right."
"That doesn't excuse it."
"No, yeah, it doesn't." I crossed my arms, the sparrow on my wrist catching the light. "But it explains it. And maybe that's enough. For now."
His her gaze sharpened. "Sloane—"
"I'm not saying I forgive you." The words came out harder than I meant them to. "I'm not saying this is okay. But I'm saying I understand. And I'm saying that I need time to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with all of this."
"Time." He said it like he was testing the word. "You'll stay? While you figure it out?"
"Iris needs me."
"I need you."
The words hung between us, raw and honest. I wanted to reach for him, to close the distance and let him hold me until the exhaustion faded. But I couldn't. Not yet.
"I know," I said quietly. "But right now, I need to think. I need to—"
My phone rang.
We both froze. The sound was jarring, too loud in the quiet room. I pulled it from my pocket, glanced at the screen.
Unknown number.
"Don't answer it," Dominic said. "It's almost midnight. It's probably—"
But I was already swiping to accept. Some instinct, some premonition that made my stomach drop.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Whitley?" The voice was male, professional, with the kind of smooth confidence that came from expensive law schools and corner offices. "This is Robert Chen, attorney for Marcus Ashford. I apologize for the late hour, but I'm calling to inform you of a legal matter that requires your immediate attention."
My blood went cold. "What kind of legal matter?"
Dominic's hand closed around my wrist, his grip tight.
"Mr. Ashford is filing a lawsuit against you, effective immediately. He's alleging that you coerced his son into providing you with confidential legal documents while Mr. Dominic Ashford was emotionally compromised following a family crisis. The suit claims fraud, undue influence, and conspiracy to commit theft of corporate assets."
"That's insane." My voice came out strangled. "I didn't—"
"Additionally," the lawyer continued, his tone never changing, "Mr. Ashford is requesting that the district attorney's office open a criminal investigation into your conduct. He believes there's sufficient evidence to warrant charges of fraud and extortion."
The room spun. Dominic's face had gone white, his hand still locked around my wrist like he was afraid I'd disappear.
"You can't—" I started.
"The paperwork will be served tomorrow morning at nine a.m. I'd strongly suggest you retain legal counsel, Ms. Whitley. This is a serious matter, and Mr. Ashford is prepared to pursue it to the fullest extent of the law." A pause. "He's also requesting that you be taken into custody tonight for questioning. I have an officer standing by to—"
The study door burst open.