8
1040 Words
Vincent
The office was quiet when I arrived, the kind of silence that usually helped me focus. My desk was covered with documents: contracts that needed reviewing, reports that required my signature, emails flagged as urgent. Two days away from the office to stay by Camilla's side had created a backlog I'd need hours to wade through.
With a sigh, I settled into my chair, pulled the first file toward me, opened it and stared at the pages until the words blurred on the page.
I blinked, refocusing, but it was useless. My mind refused to cooperate, drifting back to the hospital entrance, to Rachel's stiff shoulders as she'd walked away without acknowledging my warning. To those red marks on her wrist.
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed at my temples, exhaling slowly. This was ridiculous. I had work to do, important work that couldn't wait. Yet here I was, unable to concentrate, and it was all because of my wife.
My wife, who had somehow transformed into someone I barely recognized in the span of forty-eight hours.
Rachel had always been predictable. Quiet and accommodating to a fault. The kind of woman who smoothed over conflicts rather than creating them, who asked for permission rather than forgiveness. Naive, even, in her earnest desire to please everyone around her.
These characteristics were exactly why I had chosen her to be my wife in the first place.
And then, she shoved Camilla down a flight of stairs.
I frowned, my fingers stilling against my temple. The very idea of my mousey wife pushing anyone, least of all a pregnant woman down the stairs would have been ludicrous if not for Camilla herself confirming it and Wicker’s testimony.
I pressed a fist against my forehead, my anger returning at the thought of the miscarriage poor Camilla had suffered. And what even made me livid was Rachel’s unapologetic attitude, the way she’d kept up her pretense even when it was crystal clear she was guilty.
She was damn lucky Camilla had decided not to press charges as a favor to me.
I thought of Rachel this morning, with that angry, defiant expression as she glared at me and demanded a divorce.
I laughed, the sound echoing in my office, cold and hollow even to my own ears.
Then I remembered the marks on her wrist, the way she'd thrust her wrists toward me with defiant fury. Do these look fake to you?
The marks looked real. Angry red welts circling her skin, bruises blooming in shades of purple and blue where rope had bitten into flesh.
And that phone call last night… had that been real?
The thought made my stomach turn. If she really hadn’t been faking, then that meant she had been in real danger last night and I had…
I got up abruptly and began to pace, guilt licking at the edges of my conscience. If she had really been kidn*pped, then how had she managed to escape? She’d walked into the living room, looking unharmed except for those marks.
I picked up my phone and made a call to a private investigator I had on payroll. “My wife claimed to have been abducted for ransom last night, find out what you can about it and get back to me as soon as possible.”
“I’m on it.” The man replied, and I hung up, just as there was a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I said, crossing back to take my seat again. The door was pushed open and Wicker entered, carrying a folder with the company logo embossed on the front. His expression was carefully neutral, the way it always was when he had news I wouldn't like.
"Sir," he said, approaching my desk. "The finance team sent over their report on those unauthorized withdrawals from your private account."
I straightened, my attention sharpening. "What did they find?"
He set the folder in front of me and opened it, revealing a series of transaction records highlighted in yellow. "Two months ago, you were alerted to possible fraud involving one of the main family joint accounts. We've been monitoring activity since then."
I scanned the documents, my jaw tightening as I took in the figures. Withdrawals. Transfers. None of them are authorized by me.
"The only people with access to those accounts," Wicker continued, "are yourself, your mother, and Mrs. Thorne."
I ruled out my mother immediately. She was an heiress in her own right, having inherited a substantial fortune from her grandfather, in addition to her quarterly allowances. She had no need to siphon money from family accounts, and more importantly, no motive.
Which left only one other possibility.
Rachel.
My fingers tightened on the edge of the folder. "How much?"
"Close to two hundred thousand over the past few months," Wicker said quietly. "Small amounts at a time. Carefully spaced out, likely to avoid triggering automatic alerts."
Two hundred thousand dollars.
I stared at the numbers, something cold and hard settling in my chest. Rachel had always claimed she wanted nothing from me except my time, my attention. She'd never asked for extravagant gifts or excessive spending money. She'd presented herself as content with the modest allowance I provided.
But this told a different story.
"I want a full audit," I said, my voice flat. "Every transaction traced. Every account she's touched. I want to know exactly where this money went and what she used it for."
"Already in progress, sir," Wicker assured me. "The team is compiling a comprehensive report. I should have it ready by the end of day."
I nodded curtly, dismissing him with a wave of my hand.
When the door clicked shut behind him, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, exhaustion weighing on me like a physical force.
Rachel's bruised wrists. Her k********g claim. Her sudden demand for divorce.
And now this. Evidence of theft, of deception spanning months.
I didn't know which Rachel was real anymore. The quiet, accommodating wife I thought I'd married, or the stranger who'd been stealing from me while playing the victim.
But I intended to get to the bottom of it.
All of it.
- Writer
