Chapter 1: The Anatomy of a Traitor
Chapter 1: The Anatomy of a Traitor
The blue light from the security monitors washed over the concrete room, casting Ethan’s face in sharp, skeletal shadows. On the screen, the silver utility blade in Marcus’s hand caught the dull fluorescent light of the garage. He didn’t hesitate. He sliced the brake line of the Mercedes with the practiced precision of a man pruning a rosebush. Beside him, Grace held the flashlight steady, her face completely serene. She was wearing my favorite emerald silk robe—the one Marcus had bought me for our third anniversary.
Seeing her wear it while helping my husband orchestrate my murder didn't make me cry. It made something inside me turn to absolute stone.
"They aren't just staging an accident," Ethan said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register he used when the world was ending. "The airport route cuts through the Des Plaines river bend. At sixty miles an hour, without brakes, that car goes through the guardrail and drops eighty feet into black water. By the time emergency crews pull you out, the water has washed away the brake fluid. It looks like a tragic mechanical failure. The grieving widower inherits the Monroe empire, and the family secret stays buried forever."
"And Grace?" I asked, my voice dangerously level. "What does she get?"
"Daniel’s trust fund is tied up in your family’s holding company," Ethan explained, switching monitors to show a digital spreadsheet of offshore accounts. "If you die without an heir, Marcus takes control of the entire board. He’s already promised to release Grace’s husband’s shares to her in a private divorce settlement. They’ve been planning this since last winter, Victoria."
I stared at the screen. Four years. I had given this man my name, my father’s connections, and a life he could only dream of when he was just a mid-tier real estate broker trying to survive in Chicago. I had elevated him. And in return, he had turned my own home into a slaughterhouse.
Suddenly, a sharp beep echoed through the security room.
Ethan’s eyes snapped to the primary monitor. On the live feed of the grand hallway, the silhouette of Marcus was walking down the marble stairs. He was wearing his smoking jacket, a glass of scotch in one hand, completely unaware that the wife he had just sentenced to death was standing fewer than fifty yards away in the basement.
"He’s going to the kitchen," Ethan whispered, his hand instantly flying to the holster beneath his jacket. "If he checks the garage on his way back, he’ll see the Mercedes is missing from its bay. We have less than two minutes to get you out of this house."
"No," I said, my hand wrapping around Ethan’s wrist, stopping him. "If we run now, he realizes the trap failed. He flees, hides behind high-priced lawyers, and spins this as a security breach. My father didn’t build an empire by running from thieves, Ethan. We stay. But we change the game."
"Victoria, you are wearing a formal gown and standing in a house where the cameras are dead and your husband wants you gone," Ethan said, his eyes burning with fierce protectiveness. "This isn't a boardroom. He is desperate."
"Then let's make him careless." I looked down at my black gown, then at the velvet evening clutch in my hand. Inside it was my phone. "Does Marcus know you're still on the property?"
"He thinks I’m supervising the perimeter at the north gate. He doesn't know I found his looped camera feed."
"Good. Here is what we are going to do."
I opened my clutch, pulled out my phone, and dialed Marcus’s number.
Through the security monitor, I watched Marcus stop in the middle of the kitchen. He pulled his phone from his pocket. His eyebrows knitted together when he saw my name flashing on the screen. He took a slow sip of his scotch, cleared his throat, and answered with that smooth, wealthy baritone that had charmed me four years ago.
"Victoria, darling," Marcus said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "How is the Palm Beach dinner? I thought you'd be dancing with the senators by now."
Hearing his voice while staring at the footage of him cutting my brakes made a wave of nausea hit me, but I forced my father’s training to take over. I forced a soft, exhausted laugh into the receiver.
"Oh, it's dreadfully boring, Marcus. Just endless small talk and terrible champagne," I lied seamlessly, my eyes fixed on his digital face. "Actually, the weather is turning bad down here, so I decided to cut my trip short. I’m at the private airfield right now. The pilot says we can beat the storm if we take off in twenty minutes."
On the monitor, Marcus froze. The relaxed, arrogant posture vanished instantly. He gripped the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Tonight?" Marcus stammered, his mind clearly racing to figure out how to reset the trap. "But... darling, the weather in Chicago is miserable. Heavy rain. It's not safe to fly. Why don't you stay at the Four Seasons in Palm Beach tonight and take the morning flight? The Mercedes is already scheduled to pick you up at noon tomorrow."
"Nonsense," I replied, injected a playful pout into my tone. "I miss my husband. Besides, I told the driver to bring the Mercedes to the hangar tonight instead. I should be landing at O'Hare around midnight. See you soon, love."
I hung up before he could object.
On the screen, Marcus panicked. He threw his scotch glass into the sink, shattering it, and sprinted out of the kitchen toward the stairs to find Grace.
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"You just moved the timeline up," Ethan said, a grim appreciation flashing in his dark eyes. "He thinks he has two hours to make sure that car is back in the garage and that you get into it."
"Exactly," I said, turning to Ethan with a cold smile. "He’s going to rush. And when men like Marcus rush, they leave a blood trail. Come on, Ethan. Let’s go set up our own camera crew."
