Chapter 2 - The Stolen Millions
"I didn't just read the messages about the hotel rooms, Owen," I said, my voice dead and completely devoid of emotion as I stared at the man I had loved for four years.
Owen backed away from me, his wet skin turning gray, his hands shaking so violently the towel around his waist nearly slipped.
"I read the message Marissa sent you an hour ago," I continued, holding up the glowing screen. "The one that said: 'The $20 million from Silas Sterling’s syndicate is safely offshore. I planted the IP traces on Clara’s laptop. When Sterling realizes he’s been robbed tomorrow morning, he’ll kill her, and we’ll be in Monaco by noon.'"
Owen swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically toward the bedroom door.
"You have no idea what you've done," he choked out, his voice cracking with absolute hysteria. "Marissa was supposed to initiate the final wipe from her apartment! By making her come here, you just put us all in the same house! If Sterling’s men track her phone—"
"Clara?" Marissa’s sweet, melodic voice echoed up the stairs. "Owen? Are you guys up there?"
Footsteps clicked rapidly up the hardwood stairs. Marissa appeared in the bedroom doorway, her fake concern vanishing the second she saw Owen dripping wet and shaking in the corner, and me sitting calmly on the bed holding his phone.
Her sweet smile melted into a cold, vicious sneer.
"Well," Marissa sighed, crossing her arms. "I suppose you were going to find out tomorrow anyway when the cartel kicked your door down. It’s nothing personal, Clara. You were just the perfect, naive little housewife to use as a shield. Owen and I deserve a real life."
"You're right about one thing, Marissa," I said softly, dropping the phone onto the duvet. "Silas Sterling is going to kick the door down."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"What do you mean?" Owen whispered.
"I mean," I replied, standing up and smoothing the front of my sweater, "that when I texted Marissa to come over, I didn't just text her. I forwarded your entire archived conversation, the offshore routing numbers, and Marissa's live location directly to Silas Sterling."
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Marissa laughed—a sharp, nervous sound. "You're lying. You don't have the private number of the most dangerous man in Chicago. You're a kindergarten teacher!"
Downstairs, the heavy oak front door didn't just open. It was shattered off its hinges.
