Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3 — The Hidden Ledger
I refused to let Ethan go alone.
Despite the doctor’s protests, I discharged myself from the hospital.
My ribs were taped tightly. I walked with a cane. Every step felt like a knife twisting in my side.
But I needed to be there.
I needed to see the truth with my own eyes.
The drive to the Whitmore estate was eerily quiet.
Ethan drove with white-knuckled intensity, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
When we pulled through the massive wrought-iron gates, the mansion looked different.
It didn't look grand or elegant anymore.
It looked like a tomb.
The household staff had already been dismissed.
Ethan unlocked the massive oak front doors, and our footsteps echoed in the vast, empty foyer.
We didn't stop in the living room.
We went straight to the east wing. To Vivian’s private study.
The door was locked.
Ethan didn’t bother looking for the key.
He lifted his foot and kicked the heavy door directly at the latch.
Wood splintered. The frame cracked.
The door flew open, hitting the wall with a thunderous crash.
The study was perfectly neat.
Oil paintings. Leather-bound books. An antique mahogany desk in the center.
“Start with the drawers,” Ethan ordered, pulling the desk apart.
I limped over to a small, ornate bar cart in the corner.
Where she kept her exotic teas.
My hands shook as I opened the small, velvet-lined boxes.
Chamomile. Earl Grey. Mint.
Nothing suspicious.
Then I noticed a small, silver lockbox tucked behind a row of crystal decanters.
“Ethan,” I called out.
He rushed over.
He didn't have the combination, so he picked up a heavy brass paperweight from the desk.
He smashed it against the lockbox.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The cheap metal gave way, and the lid popped open.
Inside, sitting perfectly aligned, were three small, unmarked glass vials.
Next to them was a tiny dropper.
And a folded piece of paper.
I picked up the paper. It was a receipt from a private offshore pharmacy.
Billed to Vivian Whitmore.
For high-grade synthetic hormones.
“She really did it,” I whispered, feeling completely sick to my stomach.
“She sat across from me, smiled, and watched me drink poison.”
Ethan stared at the vials, his breathing ragged.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to the desk.
He had pried open the bottom drawer.
Inside was a stack of black leather ledgers.
Ethan opened the top one.
The numbers were staggering.
Millions of dollars, siphoned off over a decade.
Transferred to shell companies. Cayman Island accounts. Fake charities.
The Whitmore estate was completely hollowed out.
Vivian had gambled, spent, and squandered generations of wealth to maintain an illusion of high society.
“She’s broke,” Ethan said, laughing bitterly. “The great Vivian Whitmore doesn't have a dime to her name.”
Suddenly, a voice echoed from the hallway.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
We spun around.
Standing in the doorway was Arthur Vance.
The family lawyer.
He looked nervous. Sweating. He was clutching a leather briefcase tightly to his chest.
“Arthur,” Ethan said, his voice deadly quiet. “What are you doing in my mother’s house?”
Arthur took a step back, his eyes darting to the broken lockbox and the ledgers on the desk.
“I… I came to collect some files for her defense,” Arthur stammered.
“You came to destroy the evidence,” I said, leaning heavily on my cane.
“You helped her hide the money. You knew she was stealing from Ethan’s trust.”
Arthur’s face went chalk white.
“I didn't know about the poison!” he yelled defensively, instantly giving himself away.
“I swear to God, Ethan! I only moved the money! I didn't know she was trying to hurt your wife!”
Ethan slowly walked around the desk, his eyes locked on the terrified lawyer.
“You’re going to sit down, Arthur,” Ethan commanded softly.
May you like
“You’re going to call the District Attorney.”
“And you are going to tell them exactly what kind of plea deal you want in exchange for testifying against my mother.”
