Chapter 5 - The Night I Stopped Being Afraid
Marcus found the camera mounted inside a tree forty yards from the house.
Whoever installed it had known exactly which bedroom Graham would use.
That frightened me more than the photograph.
This wasn't random intimidation.
Somebody knew the Reed family.
Their habits.
Their house.
Their weaknesses.
Graham wanted me transferred to a secure hotel.
I refused.
“Avery.”
“No.”
“This isn't a negotiation.”
“Then you've forgotten who you accidentally married.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I am trying to keep you alive.”
“And I am trying not to spend the next thirty years running every time Preston sends a threatening note.”
“This isn't stubbornness. It's reckless.”
“Maybe.”
“Avery—”
“But the first time I do what he wants because I'm afraid, he owns me.”
Graham stared at me.
Then he did something I hadn't expected.
He nodded.
“All right.”
“All right?”
“You stay.”
I blinked.
“That was easier than expected.”
“I'm learning.”
The next morning, Eleanor told us the truth.
Seventeen years earlier, she had discovered Preston moving money through offshore shell companies.
She confronted him.
Preston threatened to implicate Graham.
At twenty-two, Graham had just joined Reed Global.
Preston claimed he had already created documents that would make Graham look involved.
“So you protected me,” Graham said.
Eleanor's voice cracked.
“I thought I was.”
“You let Dad take the blame.”
“I begged Thomas to leave the company quietly. I thought Preston would stop.”
“He didn't.”
“No.”
“Dad died believing I doubted him.”
Tears filled Eleanor's eyes.
“That is the thing I will regret until I die.”
Graham walked out.
I found him thirty minutes later near the old boathouse.
He stood facing the lake.
“Don't tell me she did it because she loved me.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“Everyone always excuses terrible decisions with love.”
“Love can explain something without excusing it.”
He looked at me.
“You always talk to me like this?”
“Only when you're being dramatic.”
“My childhood home was set on fire.”
“Fair.”
The smallest smile appeared.
Then vanished.
“I did doubt him.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“You were twenty-two.”
“I should have believed him.”
“You had evidence telling you not to.”
“He was my father.”
“And you were his son, not his investigator.”
He looked away.
I touched his hand.
At first, neither of us moved.
Then his fingers closed around mine.
No cameras.
No reporters.
No performance.
Just Graham and me beside a frozen lake.
That frightened me in an entirely different way.
By afternoon, we were back in Chicago for the Reed Foundation winter gala.
Canceling would make us look weak.
According to Graham's communications team, appearing together would demonstrate “stability.”
According to me, it would demonstrate that rich people had a disturbing commitment to formalwear during emergencies.
My dress was midnight blue.
Graham wore a tuxedo.
When he saw me at the top of the staircase, he stopped speaking mid-sentence.
I descended slowly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“I know.”
“That usually means something.”
He offered his arm.
“You look beautiful.”
Four years.
I had known him four years.
Graham Reed had complimented my presentation decks, negotiation notes and disaster planning.
Never me.
“Thank you,” I said.
His gaze remained on mine a second too long.
The gala took place in the Art Institute's modern wing.
Six hundred guests.
Dozens of reporters.
And Preston Reed.
He approached us before dinner.
He was in his early sixties, silver-haired, charming and polished enough to make betrayal look respectable.
“Avery.”
“Preston.”
“So you're family now.”
“Apparently.”
He smiled.
“I hope Graham explained what happens to women who marry Reed men.”
Graham stepped forward.
“Careful.”
Preston ignored him.
“They spend their lives waiting for men who never come home.”
I smiled sweetly.
“Luckily, I've managed his calendar for years.”
Preston's smile tightened.
“You're clever.”
“So people keep telling me.”
“Clever people often mistake being useful for being important.”
Graham's hand settled against my back.
“Leave.”
Preston's gaze moved between us.
“You actually care about her.”
Nobody answered.
His smile returned.
“That's unfortunate.”
He walked away.
“I'm beginning to understand your hatred,” I said.
“Only beginning?”
Dinner passed without disaster.
Then came the charity auction.
I was speaking with a donor when a server approached.
“Mrs. Reed?”
I still wasn't used to that name.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Reed asked for you downstairs.”
“Graham?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
I followed him through a service corridor.
The instant the ballroom doors disappeared behind us, something felt wrong.
“Where is he?”
The server kept walking.
“Just ahead.”
I stopped.
“So am I.”
He turned.
His expression changed.
I ran.
He grabbed my arm.
I drove my elbow backward exactly the way Chloe's police-officer husband had taught me.
The man cursed.
I broke free.
Another figure appeared at the end of the hallway.
I screamed.
The first man caught my dress.
Fabric tore.
Then Graham came around the corner.
I had never seen him look like that.
He hit the first attacker hard enough to send him into the wall, then pulled me behind him while security rushed in.
The second man escaped through a loading dock.
Minutes later I was shaking inside a private office while Marcus questioned staff.
Graham crouched in front of me.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
I did.
His hand hovered near my cheek.
“Can I?”
The question nearly broke me.
I nodded.
His fingers touched my face.
Gentle.
Careful.
“I thought—”
He stopped.
“What?”
His jaw tightened.
“I thought I was too late.”
“You weren't.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then I wrapped my arms around him.
He froze.
Only for a second.
Then his arms came around me.
The Ice King held me like letting go was impossible.
That was when Marcus entered.
“We identified the man.”
Graham slowly released me.
“Who?”
“He's worked private security for Reed Global for eleven years.”
“Who hired him tonight?”
Marcus placed a photograph on the desk.
“According to payroll records, the authorization came from CFO Miles Voss.”
Graham looked at me.
Finally.
A direct connection.
Then Marcus placed something else beside the photograph.
A small USB drive.
“He dropped this when Graham hit him.”
“What is it?”
“We checked the directory.”
Marcus looked almost stunned.
“Copies of every payment Preston and Voss made during the last fifteen years.”
My heart raced.
“We have them.”
“Maybe,” Marcus said.
“What do you mean?”
“One file is different.”
He opened a photograph.
It showed a woman meeting Preston outside a Chicago restaurant two weeks earlier.
I recognized her immediately.
So did Graham.
My throat closed.
“No.”
It was Chloe.
My sister.
And beneath the photograph was a payment record.
May you like
Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.
Sent to an account in her name.
