Chapter 3 - The Boardroom at Midnight
Daniel did not shout. He did not curse. He took the invoice from my fingers, smoothing the creases with his thumb under the warm light of the console lamp.
His eyes scanned the Delaware address, the line item for Project Goliath, and the signature at the bottom.
For ten seconds, his face remained an unreadable mask of cold stone. Then, a faint, humorless smile curved the corner of his mouth—the terrifying smile of a predator who had finally found the scent of blood.
"Delaware," Daniel murmured, his baritone steady as an iron bar. "Carter always was lazy with his shell entities."
He looked down at me.
"Where is your daughter?"
"She fell asleep in the breakfast nook, Mr. Hail," I stammered, my voice trembling. "I can leave immediately. I shouldn't have looked at that paper—"
"You shouldn't have had to look at it," Daniel interrupted gently. "Because my closest friend shouldn't have been stealing from me."
He folded the invoice and slipped it into his breast pocket.
"Carry Lily upstairs to the guest suite in the west wing," Daniel commanded, his voice turning into the crisp, decisive cadence that had built an enterprise from a garage in Palo Alto. "Mrs. Bellweather keeps the linen fresh there. Lock the door. Do not answer it for anyone. I have work to do tonight."
I hurried to the kitchen, scooped Lily into my arms—limp and heavy with deep toddler sleep, her thumb tucked into her mouth—and carried her up the back stairs. I laid her in the center of the massive king bed, tucked the down duvet around her shoulders, and sat in the armchair beside the door, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Downstairs, the house did not sleep.
By midnight, three dark sedans had rolled through the rear courtyard without headlights.
From my window, I watched men in dark tactical suits carry aluminum server cases through the service entrance. Frank Callahan, Daniel’s lead trial attorney and the most ruthless corporate litigator in New York, arrived carrying three leather folios.
At 1:30 AM, a soft knock sounded on my door.
May you like
Mrs. Bellweather stood outside in her robe, her silver hair pinned back, holding a porcelain mug of hot tea.
"Mr. Hail wants you downstairs in the library, Clara," the older woman whispered. "Bring your employment ledger."
