Chapter 5 - THE FIANCÉ WHO WOULDN’T LET GO|
Preston Whitfield had never believed in consequences.
He believed in negotiations, influence, and the useful weakness of people who needed something from him. His father had taught him that a man's reputation was a currency, and that the person who controlled the story usually controlled the outcome.
For eleven months, he had controlled Camille's story.
He had told people she was shy, unambitious, and grateful to be included in his world. When she corrected him, he called her sensitive. When she disagreed, he said she was embarrassed by her lack of education. When she asked about his late-night calls, he accused her of being insecure.
He had mistaken her patience for permission.
Now the phones at Whitfield and Associates were ringing for all the wrong reasons.
Two clients had requested their files. A third had canceled a meeting. The senior partners wanted to know why Ferraro Port Holdings had terminated its contract without warning.
Preston knew the answer.
Camille.
He found her outside the Ashmore building that afternoon.
“Get in the car,” he said.
She kept walking.
“Camille.”
“I'm working.”
“You're not working. You're hiding.”
She stopped beside the staff entrance.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“You embarrassed me.”
“You embarrassed yourself.”
His expression tightened.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve cost me?”
“An engagement?”
“Millions of dollars.”
“Then perhaps you should have treated me better.”
Preston stepped closer.
“Listen carefully. Whatever game Ferraro is playing, you don't belong in it.”
“I didn't ask to be part of his game.”
“Then walk away.”
“I’m trying.”
He reached for her arm.
A voice interrupted him.
“Take your hand off her.”
Tobias stood near the curb with two men beside him.
Preston released her immediately, but his face darkened.
“This is a private conversation.”
“Not anymore,” Tobias replied.
Preston looked toward the black sedan.
“Tell Ferraro I’m not afraid of him.”
Tobias's expression remained neutral.
“I'll pass along your message.”
Camille stepped away from both men.
“Stop speaking about me as if I'm property.”
Tobias looked at her.
“You're right.”
Preston gave a bitter laugh.
“Enjoy your new protector. Men like Ferraro don't protect women. They collect them.”
Camille turned toward him.
“You spent eleven months trying to make me smaller so you could feel important. Don't pretend you know anything about what another man wants.”
She entered the building.
Preston remained outside, staring after her.
That evening, he met with a man in a private dining room at the St. Charles Hotel. The man introduced himself as Victor Sloane, though Preston knew the name was false.
Sloane placed a slim folder on the table.
“Your former fiancée has become a problem.”
“She isn't my fiancée anymore.”
“Not officially, perhaps. But she knows enough to be useful.”
Preston opened the folder.
Inside was a photograph of Camille leaving Gideon's office.
“What do you want?”
“The original ledger.”
“I don't know where it is.”
“Your firm handled Ferraro's legal accounts. You may have access to documents he doesn't know you've seen.”
Preston closed the folder.
“I'm not stealing from Ferraro.”
Sloane smiled.
“Your career is already collapsing. You can either help us recover what was taken, or discover how quickly a respectable family name becomes worthless.”
Preston stared at him.
“What happens to Camille?”
“Nothing, if she cooperates.”
“And if she doesn't?”
Sloane leaned back.
“Then you will finally learn what your little joke at the auction cost.”
Across town, Camille was reviewing her father's handwriting when her phone rang from an unknown number.
She answered cautiously.
A man's voice spoke in French.
Not modern French.
Old, regional French, with a phrase her father used when he wanted her to pay attention.
“Little bird,” the voice said. “If the black anchor has appeared, don't trust the man who carries it.”
Camille went cold.
“Who is this?”
The line clicked.
A moment later, a photograph arrived.
It showed her father's leather case lying open on a wooden table.
May you like
Beside it was a fresh newspaper.
And on the front page, circled in red, was the date of tomorrow.
