Chapter 4 - The Corporate Heist
The rain had turned into a thick, clinging fog by the time Victoria's black sedan pulled up two blocks away from Vance & Associates, the boutique financial firm Ethan co-owned in the heart of downtown.
My body still ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion, but my mind was clearer than it had been in months. The fog of gaslighting, the quiet doubts Ethan had planted in my mind for years—all of it had burned away, replaced by a pure, crystalline fury.
"The building security switches to night-watch at midnight," Victoria said, checking her watch. It was 11:45 PM. "Julianna’s private contractors will likely enter under the guise of an IT maintenance crew at 12:15. We have thirty minutes."
"How do we get in?" I asked, pulling the dark rain jacket Victoria had lent me over my clothes.
"Ethan kept an emergency keycard in his spare wallet in your glove box. I retrieved it while you were asleep in the hospital," she said, handing me the sleek black card. "His private office is on the ninth floor. Room 904. The main server rack for his personal communications isn't in the IT room—he kept a localized backup server in his office safe to conceal his embezzlement from his partners."
"He was embezzling, too?"
Victoria gave a dry, mocking laugh. "Men like Ethan never stop at one crime, Claire. They are black holes of greed. He was stealing from his clients to fund his lifestyle with Julianna. The trust fund he tried to steal from Ryan was meant to cover the hole before the auditors arrived next month."
I felt a sickening chill run down my spine. Ethan hadn't just tried to murder us out of hatred; he had treated our lives like an accounting correction. A line item on a ledger.
"Let's go," I said, opening the car door.
We moved quickly through the shadows of the alleyway, bypassing the grand glass entrance of the skyscraper and heading for the service doors near the loading dock. I swiped Ethan's keycard. The indicator light flickered green with a soft click.
We slipped inside. The lobby was silent, lit only by the green exit signs and the ambient hum of the HVAC system. We avoided the main elevators—which were monitored by the front desk guard—and took the service stairwell, climbing nine flights of concrete stairs in total silence.
By the time we reached the ninth floor, my lungs felt like they were on fire, but I refused to slow down. I pushed open the heavy door to the corridor.
Room 904 sat at the end of the hall. I swiped the card again. The door unlocked.
Ethan's office smelled of expensive leather, mahogany wood, and his signature sandalwood cologne. It was a room I had visited dozens of times with Ryan, bringing him lunch on days he worked late, believing he was slaving away for our family's future.
"The safe is behind the painting of the harbor," I said, walking straight to the wall behind his massive oak desk. I swung the framed canvas aside, revealing a heavy digital safe keypad.
"Do you know the code?" Victoria asked, stepping up beside me with a handheld drive-cloning device.
I stared at the numbers. Ethan had changed his passwords constantly, citing security. But he was a narcissist. His choices always revolved around his own achievements.
I typed in the date he made partner: 0-8-1-4.
ERROR.
I bit my lip. The date we got married? No, he forgot our anniversary three years in a row. Ryan's birthday?
I typed in Ryan's birthday: 0-5-1-2.
ERROR. TWO ATTEMPTS REMAINING BEFORE LOCKOUT.
"Claire, think," Victoria urged softly, watching the hall door. "What is the one thing he was most proud of?"
My eyes swept across the room—the mahogany desk, the framed diplomas, the photo of him shaking hands with the governor. And then I saw it: a small silver paperweight engraved with his net worth target from five years ago.
I typed in the dollar figure he used to boast about over dinner when he thought I wasn't listening: 1-0-0-0-0-0-0. One million.
ACCESS GRANTED.
The heavy steel door clicked open.
Inside sat a sleek, dark blue NAS server unit, its lights blinking rhythmically, alongside stacks of ledgers, offshore bank transfer receipts, and a small glass vial wrapped in bubble wrap—labeled with a chemical compound name. The poison.
"Jackpot," Victoria breathed, pulling out her cables. "Connect the cloner directly to the primary drive bay. It will take four minutes."
Suddenly, the electronic chime of the floor's main elevator echoed through the quiet hallway.
Footsteps—heavy, deliberate boots—began moving down the corridor toward Room 904.
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"They're early," Victoria whispered, her face going pale.
"Finish the copy," I said, grabbing a heavy bronze statuette off Ethan's desk and stepping toward the shadows behind the door. "Finish it, Victoria. I'm not leaving without that drive."
