Chapter 9 – Suspicions and Secrets
The silence in Arielle's apartment was a physical weight. She hadn't spoken, hadn't made a sound, since Jenna had gently pried the crumpled photo from her hand and guided her to the car. Jenna had talked the whole drive soothing, practical words about stress and office pranks gone too far. Arielle had stared out the window, seeing nothing but those five words etched against the back of her eyelids in jagged, angry strokes.
This is just the beginning.
The night was a long, cold slide into dread. She didn't sleep. She sat on her couch in the dark, the photo of her parents on the coffee table, a silent accusation. Fear was a sour taste in her mouth, a tremor in her hands. But as the first grey light of dawn smudged the sky, something in her hardened. It crystallized, cold and sharp. The fear was still there, but it was now fuel.
Someone wanted her shaking? Terrified and small?
Fine.
Now she wanted answers. And she would claw them out of the stone walls of Stone Industries herself.
She marched into the office, a different kind of tension holding her spine straight. The whispers felt thinner now, the stares more manageable. She had a purpose that burned hotter than her humiliation.
Selene was waiting. The senior financial auditor, a woman with a hawk's eyes and a discreet, kind smile, was standing in Arielle's office, a thick, sealed folder under her arm. Selene had been a mentor, one of the few people who treated her with respect instead of jealousy or suspicion.
"I heard what happened yesterday," Selene said quietly, closing the door. "Damian told me to keep an eye on you. He's… concerned."
Arielle felt a hot, unwelcome flush at his name, a confusing mix of longing and new, creeping doubt. She pushed it down, locking it away.
"Selene, I need your help," Arielle said, her voice steady in a way that surprised her. "No more tiptoeing. No more pretending I don't see the knives." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I need to know what really happened to my parents. The accident… I need to see everything."
Selene's warm expression tightened with concern. She studied Arielle's face for a long moment, then gave a slow, decisive nod. "I've been waiting for you to ask."
She laid the folder on the desk, breaking the seal. Inside weren't standard audit reports. These were older documents, some scanned, some original paper with faded type. Bank records. Wire transfer authorizations. Private account ledgers, the kind meant to stay hidden.
Arielle's eyes scanned the pages, her analytical mind kicking in despite the rising dread. Dates. Amounts. Account numbers. A pattern emerged, a sinister rhythm of money moving in the shadows. And all the trails, every single one, led back to a name that made the blood drain from her face.
Cassian Ward.
Her stomach plunged. Ice, sharp and immediate, shot through her veins.
"This can't be real," Arielle whispered, her finger tracing the familiar, flamboyant signature on a transfer slip. "Why would Cassian…? What does he have to do with my parents?"
Selene exhaled slowly, a sound of deep regret. "Look at the timestamps, Arielle."
Arielle forced her eyes to focus. The dates. The first transfer was dated two months before the rainy night that ended everything. Another, three weeks before. Smaller sums, then larger. A final, substantial withdrawal…
"This one," Selene said softly, pointing to a line on the ledger, "was processed the day before your parents died."
The words didn't just hit Arielle; they unraveled her. The world didn't just tilt it fractured, the solid foundation of her grief splitting open to reveal a black, gaping hole of something much worse.
"Selene… what are you saying?" she asked, her voice a thin, trembling thread.
Selene hesitated, her professional composure cracking to show raw, urgent worry. "As far as I can trace the money… this wasn't an accident, Arielle. The payments, the timing… it's too precise. Someone planned it."
"No." The word was a breath, a plea. "No, no, no"
It couldn't be. An accident was a tragedy. A random, cruel twist of fate. This… this was a transaction. Her parents' lives, reduced to a line in a ledger. Her childhood, erased by a signature.
Selene reached across the desk, taking Arielle's cold hand. "I'm so sorry. But there's no way these numbers are random. This is a trail. A buried one, but a trail."
Arielle swiped at the hot tears that finally spilled over. The shock was receding, burned away by a new, terrifying clarity. "That means someone paid Cassian. Or Cassian paid someone."
Selene nodded, her grip firm. "Yes. And whoever orchestrated this tried very, very hard to make the trail disappear. I only found it because I was looking for something else irregularities in the corporate charity funds from that period."
Her parents. Dead. Not by chance. Not by a slick road and bad luck.
By design.
By calculation.
By betrayal.
The numbness shattered, replaced by a cold, clean fury. Her voice, when it came, was cracked but steady. "And I think I know who was pulling Cassian's strings."
The hours bled together in a fog of silent, frantic research. Selene brought more documents, pieces of a financial ghost story. Each one was another stone dropped into the pit of horror in Arielle's stomach. Every path led back to Cassian his shell companies, his offshore accounts, his taste for expensive, untraceable deals.
But the 'why' was a void. Cassian was a peacock, a manipulator, obsessed with status and Damian' shadow. What motive did he have to target two middle class architects? It made no sense.
Arielle rubbed her temples, a headache pounding behind her eyes. "It feels like he was a tool," she murmured, more to herself than to Selene. "Someone else was holding the hammer. Someone with a real motive. Someone with… access."
Selene, cross referencing dates on a separate screen, nodded slowly. "I've been thinking the same. The money flowed through Cassian, but the origin point is smudged. It's professional."
Arielle's throat tightened. Access. Professional. Motive.
A name tried to force its way to the front of her mind. She tore the thought away, a visceral rejection.
Damian.
No. He was intense, ruthless, a man of shadows. But he'd protected her. He'd fixed the sabotage. He'd looked at her with a hunger that felt real, not predatory. He'd saved her.
Hadn't he?
The doubt was a parasite, gnawing at the edges of her certainty. What if every act of protection was just a way to keep her close? To control what she discovered? He had, by his own admission, hacked the entire building. He knew everything that moved. Would he know about this? Could he have…?
Her chest tightened, a band of pure panic. She wanted to trust him. She needed to trust someone. But trust had become a currency she could no longer afford to spend.
Selene touched her arm, drawing her from the spiral. "Arielle," she said, her voice low and serious. "Be careful who you talk to. Even with this. Especially with this."
Arielle met her friend's worried gaze and nodded. "I know."
But the fear was a live wire in her spine. Because the enemy was no longer a faceless saboteur. The enemy had a name she'd known for years. And possibly, a face she had begun, against all reason, to crave.
Later that afternoon, Arielle tried to bury herself in mindless work, the mundane task of clearing her corrected inbox a desperate attempt at normalcy. But her fingers trembled on the keys. Every shadow in the hallway seemed to hold its breath.
And then she felt it the unmistakable, skin-crawling sensation of being watched. It was sharper now, more focused than the general office paranoia. This was a beam of attention, trained directly on the back of her neck.
Her skin prickled. Her breath hitched.
She spun in her chair, her heart in her throat.
The hallway was empty. The cubicles around her, deserted. It was late; most people had trickled out.
The silence was absolute, and in it, the feeling intensified.
Her phone, face-down on the desk, vibrated with a sharp, aggressive buzz. She jumped, a small gasp escaping her. Damian's name flashed on the screen.
Her heart did a painful, hopeful lurch. She answered, bringing the phone to her ear with a shaky hand. "Damian"
"Arielle." His voice was a low, urgent whip-crack. All control was gone, replaced by a tension that vibrated down the line. "Listen to me very carefully."
Her pulse stuttered to a stop. "Damian… what's wrong?"
"I need you to trust me," he said, the words rushed. "Just this once. Don't question it."
Arielle swallowed, the taste of fear metallic in her mouth. "Okay…"
A beat of silence stretched, thick and strained. She could almost hear his frantic thinking, the calculation of seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was clipped, deadly serious.
"Leave the office. Right now. Don't stop for anything. Don't ask why."
A cold that had nothing to do with the air conditioning swept through her. "Damian, what's happening?"
"Now, Arielle," he repeated, the command harsh, fraying at the edges. "I'm on my way to you. Don't let anyone stop you. Do you understand?"
Terror, bright and blinding, seized her. Something was happening. Something had broken. She nodded, a useless gesture he couldn't see. "Yes."
"Go."
The line went dead.
Action. She needed to move. She shoved her laptop into her bag, stood so fast her chair rolled back and hit the desk with a thud. She took one step toward the door
The overhead lights flickered.
Once.
A stutter in reality.
Twice.
A warning blink.
And then her computer monitor, which should have gone to sleep, glowed to life. A single notification box popped up in the center of the dark screen, the text stark and white.
From: Unknown Sender
You're too late.
Arielle's blood turned to ice. A choked sound died in her throat.
Before she could process it, before she could even breathe, another sound cut through the silent office.
Click.
It came from behind her. From the direction of the main door to the financial wing, the one that was usually propped open this time of night.
The sound of the magnetic lock engaging. Slow. Deliberate.
As if someone on the other side had just sealed her in.
Arielle turned toward the sound, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, her breath trapped in her frozen lungs.
The hallway beyond the glass wall was dark, the lock's red LED now glowing like a malevolent eye.
Damian's urgent command echoed in her head. Leave. Now.
But the sudden, chilling understanding washed over her, extinguishing the last spark of hope.
Someone wasn't waiting for her to leave the building.
They had been waiting for everyone else to leave.
They had been waiting for her to be completely, utterly alone.