Chapter 41
I couldn't make myself read the last paragraph.
My eyes kept skipping over the words, sliding away like water off glass. The letter trembled in my hands. Dominic sat beside me in the back of Morrison's sedan, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him, but he hadn't said a word since I'd opened the envelope.
The alley outside was dark. Three blocks from Chase Manhattan, tucked between a dry cleaner and a bodega with bars on the windows. Morrison had killed the engine. The only sound was my breathing, too fast, too shallow.
"Sloane." Dominic's voice was careful. Measured. "What does it say."
Not a question. A statement, like he already knew.
I forced my eyes back to the page.
The question is: what are you going to do with the truth?
Richard Ashford didn't just steal your mother's patent. He murdered her when she threatened to expose him. Personally. He administered the poison himself, in her hospital room, while she was too weak to fight back. I have the medical records that prove it. The toxicology report that was buried. The nurse who witnessed it and was paid to disappear.
Your mother died because she believed in justice. Because she thought the system would protect her.
She was wrong.
And here's the part that will destroy Dominic: his mother knew. Catherine Ashford found out what Richard had done, and she was going to the police. Two years later, she died of the same 'kidney failure' that killed your mother.
I didn't kill Catherine Ashford. But I helped Richard make it look natural. I falsified the autopsy. I buried the evidence. I let Dominic believe his father was a good man.
That's my confession. That's what I owe you.
The rest is up to you.
—Marcus
The letter slipped from my fingers.
Dominic caught it before it hit the floor. His hands were steady. Mine weren't.
"Let me see it," he said.
"No."
"Sloane—"
"You don't want to read this." My voice came out flat. Dead. "Trust me."
He took the letter anyway. I watched his face as he read, watched the color drain from his skin, watched his jaw tighten and his eyes go distant and his breathing stop for three full seconds before starting again.
When he finished, he folded the letter carefully. Precisely. Like it was a legal document and not a bomb that had just detonated in his hands.
"I know," he said.
Two words. Quiet. Final.
I stared at him. "What?"
"I know." He set the letter on the seat between us, not looking at me. "I've known. Not the details. Not the proof. But I've known something was wrong for years."
"That's not—" I couldn't finish the sentence. My throat had closed up. "You said your mother died of kidney failure. You said it was natural."
"I said that's what the death certificate claimed." His voice was still measured, still controlled, but something underneath it was cracking. "I didn't say I believed it."
Morrison shifted in the driver's seat. Didn't turn around. Didn't speak. Just sat there like a statue while my entire world tilted sideways.
"When?" I managed.
"Five years ago." Dominic's hands were folded in his lap now, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. "I found my mother's diary. She'd hidden it in her closet, behind a false panel. I was cleaning out her things. My father had kept her room exactly as she'd left it, like a shrine, and I thought—" He stopped. Started again. "I thought it would help. To read her words. To feel close to her again."
"What did it say."
"Cryptic entries. Nothing explicit. But enough." He was staring straight ahead now, at the back of Morrison's headrest, like if he looked at me he'd shatter. "References to 'what Richard did to that woman.' Questions about whether she should go to the police. Fear that he'd find out she knew."
My nails dug into my palms. "And you didn't—"
"I burned it." The words came out flat. Emotionless. "I took it to the fireplace in my father's study and I watched it turn to ash. Every page. Every word."
The air in the car felt too thin. I couldn't get enough of it into my lungs.
"Why."
"Because I was a coward." He said it simply. Factually. Like he was describing the weather. "Because I didn't want to know. Because if I knew for certain, I'd have to do something about it, and I wasn't ready to destroy everything my family had built. So I told myself it was grief. Paranoia. That my mother had been sick and confused and—" His voice finally broke. "I told myself lies. And I believed them. Because it was easier than facing the truth."
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until something inside him cracked open and bled.
Instead, I said: "My mother."
"I know."
"Your father murdered my mother."
"I know."
"And you suspected. For five years, you suspected, and you did nothing."
"Yes." He turned to look at me then, and his eyes were empty. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything inside him and left only the shell. "I did nothing. I chose my father's legacy over the truth. I chose my own comfort over justice. I chose—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I chose wrong. And I've been choosing wrong ever since."
Morrison's phone rang.
The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot. He answered without looking at the screen, his voice clipped and professional: "Morrison."
I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation. Just Morrison's responses, each one shorter than the last.
"When."
"How many."
"Shit."
He ended the call and turned to face us. His expression was grim.
"That was Patricia," he said. "The board moved up their emergency meeting. It's happening tonight. Eight o'clock."
I checked my watch. 5:47.
"They're planning to have you arrested before you can speak publicly," Morrison continued, looking at Dominic. "Fraud charges. Embezzlement. They've got the SEC involved. Patricia says they have evidence—financial records showing you've been siphoning company funds into offshore accounts."
"That's not possible." Dominic's voice was steady again. Back to that measured, controlled tone. "I haven't touched the company finances except through legitimate channels."
"Doesn't matter if it's real." Morrison started the engine. "Matters if they can make it look real. And apparently, they can. Patricia says the warrant's already been issued. They're just waiting for the right moment to serve it."
"How long do we have?" I asked.
"Three hours. Maybe less." Morrison pulled out of the alley, tires squealing. "If we're going to do this, we need to move now."
Dominic was silent. I watched him process the information, watched him calculate odds and outcomes and consequences. His face gave nothing away.
"Where are we going?" I said.
"The Ashford building." Morrison took a corner too fast. "Patricia's arranged a press conference for tomorrow morning, but if they arrest you tonight, that won't matter. We need to get ahead of this."
"No." Dominic's voice cut through the car like a blade. "Not the building. My penthouse. I need to get something first."
Morrison's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "What?"
"Insurance." Dominic pulled out his phone. Started typing. "I've been documenting everything for months. Every conversation with my father. Every suspicious transaction. Every lie. I have recordings. Files. Proof that the board knew about the patent theft and chose to cover it up rather than make it right."
My stomach dropped. "You've been planning this."
"I've been preparing for it." He didn't look up from his phone. "There's a difference."
"Since when."
"Since the day I found my mother's diary." He finished typing and pocketed the phone. "I told myself I was just being cautious. Protecting myself in case the truth ever came out. But really, I was building an exit strategy. A way to burn it all down if I ever found the courage."
"And now you have the courage." I didn't phrase it as a question.
"Now I don't have a choice." He finally met my eyes. "Marcus made sure of that."
Morrison drove like he was being chased. Maybe he was. I didn't know anymore. The city blurred past the windows—streetlights and storefronts and people who had no idea their world was about to shift.
Dominic sat beside me, silent again. His phone kept buzzing. He ignored it.
"You can't do this alone," I said.
"I'm not asking you to be involved."
"Yeah, no, that's not how this works." I shifted to face him. "You think I'm just going to sit back and watch you throw yourself on a grenade? After everything?"
"That's exactly what I think you should do." His voice was still calm. Still measured. But underneath it, I heard something raw. Desperate. "Sloane, if you stand with me tomorrow, you become a target. The board will come after you. The media will tear you apart. Your life will never be normal again."
"My life was never normal." I laughed, sharp and bitter. "My mother was murdered by your father. I grew up in foster care. I've been broke and scared and alone for as long as I can remember. You think I'm afraid of the board? You think I'm afraid of the media?"
"You should be."
"Well, I'm not." I grabbed his hand. Forced him to look at me. "I'm going to that press conference. I'm claiming my inheritance publicly. I'm making myself a target too. And you don't get to stop me."
"Sloane—"
"You don't get to protect me anymore." The words came out harder than I meant them to. "That's not your job. That's not what this is. We're partners now. Equals. Which means you don't get to make decisions for me. You don't get to send me away to keep me safe. You don't get to—"
"I love you." He said it quietly. Simply. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I love you, and I can't watch you destroy your life for mine."
My breath caught. The words hung in the air between us, heavy and impossible.
"That's not your choice to make," I said finally.
"I know." He squeezed my hand. "But I'm asking anyway. Please. Walk away. Let me do this alone. You deserve better than—"
"Stop." I pulled my hand back. "Just stop. You don't get to decide what I deserve. You don't get to tell me what my life should look like. I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you. I'm choosing the truth, even if it destroys everything. So either accept that, or—"
Morrison slammed on the brakes.
We lurched forward. My seatbelt caught. Dominic's arm shot out to brace me, pure instinct, even though I was already secure.
"What the hell?" I said.
Morrison was staring at his phone. His face had gone white.
"Morrison." Dominic's voice was sharp now. Commanding. "What is it."
"They're at the penthouse." Morrison's hand was shaking. Just slightly. Enough to notice. "They have Iris."
The world stopped.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process what he'd just said.
"Who." Dominic's voice was deadly quiet. "Who has my daughter."
"I don't know." Morrison was already pulling a U-turn, tires screaming. "Patricia just got word. Someone bypassed security. Got into your private elevator. She's trying to get eyes on the situation now, but—"
"How long ago."
"Ten minutes. Maybe less."
Dominic was already dialing. His hands were steady, but his jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
The call went to voicemail.
He tried again.
Voicemail.
"Drive faster," he said.
Morrison pressed the accelerator to the floor. The engine roared. Buildings blurred past. Red lights meant nothing.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered without thinking. "Hello?"
"Hello, Sloane." The voice was smooth. Familiar. Impossible. "I hope you're having a pleasant evening."
My blood turned to ice.
"Marcus," I whispered.
Dominic's head whipped toward me. His eyes were wild.
"Not quite." The voice laughed. Soft. Amused. "But close. Marcus left very detailed instructions, you see. And I'm simply following through on his final wishes."
"Where's Iris." My voice came out steady. Cold. I didn't recognize it as my own.
"Safe. For now." A pause. "But that depends entirely on what you do next."
"What do you want."
"The same thing Marcus wanted. Justice. Truth. The complete and total destruction of the Ashford legacy." Another pause. "And you're going to help me get it."
"I'm not—"
"You are." The voice was still pleasant. Still calm. "Because if you don't, Iris Ashford dies. And unlike your mother, unlike Catherine Ashford, unlike all the other people the Ashfords have destroyed over the years, her death will be public. Messy. Impossible to cover up."
My hand tightened on the phone. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" A sound in the background. A child's voice, muffled. Scared. "Would you like to test that theory?"
Dominic grabbed the phone from my hand. Put it on speaker.
"This is Dominic Ashford," he said. His voice was ice. "If you hurt my daughter—"
"You'll what?" The voice laughed again. "Call the police? They're already on their way. Call your security team? They're the ones who let me in. Face it, Dominic. You have no power here. No leverage. No control."
"What do you want."
"I want you to understand what it feels like." The voice dropped lower. Harder. "To have everything taken from you. To watch the people you love suffer. To know that you're powerless to stop it."
"I'll give you anything." Dominic's composure was cracking. I could hear it in his voice, see it in the way his hands shook. "Money. The company. Whatever you want. Just let her go."
"I don't want your money." A pause. "I want you to feel what Marcus felt. What Sloane felt. What every person your family has destroyed felt."
"Please—"
"You have one hour." The voice cut him off. "Come to the penthouse. Alone. No police. No security. No Patricia Chen. Just you. And maybe—maybe—I'll let your daughter live."
The line went dead.
Dominic stared at the phone. His face was gray. His breathing shallow.
"We're ten minutes out," Morrison said. His voice was tight. Professional. "I'm calling Patricia. We need backup."
"No." Dominic's voice was hollow. "He said no police."
"He's going to kill her anyway." Morrison's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. "You know that, right? This is a trap. He wants you there so he can—"
"I don't care." Dominic looked at me. His eyes were desperate. Broken. "I have to try."
I grabbed his hand. Held it tight.
"We're going together," I said.
"Sloane—"
"Together." I squeezed harder. "You don't get to protect me. Remember?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Nodded once.
Morrison cursed under his breath and pressed the accelerator harder.
The city screamed past. Six minutes. Five. Four.
My phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
I answered.
"Change of plans," the voice said. "I'm feeling generous. You can bring Sloane. In fact, I insist. She deserves to see this."
"See what," I said.
"The end." A pause. "Of everything."
The line went dead again.
Morrison took a corner so hard I slammed into Dominic. He caught me. Held me. His heart was racing against my shoulder.
"Three minutes," Morrison said.
Dominic's phone rang.
He answered. "Yes."
Patricia's voice came through, tinny and distant. "Dominic, listen to me. Do not go into that building. We have units on the way. SWAT is mobilizing. You need to wait for—"
"I can't wait." He ended the call. Turned off his phone. Looked at me. "If this goes wrong—"
"It won't."
"If it does—"
"It won't." I grabbed his face. Forced him to look at me. "We're getting Iris back. We're ending this. And then we're burning the whole goddamn empire to the ground. Together."
He kissed me. Hard. Desperate. Like it might be the last time.
Morrison pulled up to the building. Slammed the car into park.
"I'm coming with you," he said.
"No." Dominic was already opening the door. "Stay here. If we're not back in thirty minutes—"
"I'm coming with you." Morrison pulled his gun. Checked the chamber. "That's not a request."
We ran.
The lobby was empty. The security desk abandoned. Our footsteps echoed off marble and glass.
The elevator doors stood open. Waiting.
We stepped inside.
Dominic pressed the button for the penthouse.
The doors closed.
The elevator started to rise.
And Morrison's phone rang one more time.
He answered. Listened. His face went white.
"They're not at the penthouse," he said.
The elevator kept climbing.
"Where are they?" Dominic's voice was barely human.
Morrison looked at me. Then at Dominic. Then back at his phone.
"They're at the Ashford building," he said. "On the roof."