Conflict of Interest

|c.4 |

Marisol stared at him from the center of the private room, her earlier buzz still pleasantly clouding the edges of her thoughts even as suspicion began cutting through it. She had followed Jericho back here expecting answers, perhaps even an admission that he knew something about the company she had been investigating. Instead, he had locked the door, made two phone calls like a man preparing for war, and started ordering people around before she'd had the opportunity to ask a single damn question.

Now he wanted her to explain?

A humorless laugh slipped from her lips. “Oh, no. f**k you.”

Jericho's brow lifted.

“No, seriously. f**k you, Jericho.” Marisol pointed at him as she began pacing across the room. “You don't get to do all of that and then stand there looking at me like I'm the one who owes you an explanation.”

“All of what?”

Marisol stopped so abruptly that one heel wobbled beneath her. She caught herself, straightened, and glared at him as though daring him to acknowledge it.

Jericho wisely didn't.

“All of that mysterious bullshit you just did!” she snapped. “The phone calls. The orders. The f*****g corporate audit. You heard J.K. Holdings and damn near transformed into somebody else right in front of me, but I'm supposed to explain?” She pressed a hand dramatically against her chest. “¿Quién carajo te crees que eres?”

Jericho's mouth twitched.

Marisol's eyes narrowed. “Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You don't have to. I know that look.”

“What look?”

“That smug-ass look you used to get in college when you knew something everybody else didn't.”

That did it. Jericho laughed.

The sound was deep and warm, filling the otherwise quiet room, and under any other circumstances Marisol might have enjoyed it. Earlier tonight, that same laugh had sent heat curling through her stomach.

Right now, she wanted to throw something at him.

“¿De qué coño te ríes?”

“You.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You think this s**t is funny?”

“No.” Jericho's laughter faded, though amusement remained in his eyes. “I think you cursing me out in Spanish while you're barely steady on those heels is a little funny.”

“I am perfectly steady.”

“You almost fell.”

“I did not fall.”

“I said almost.”

“Because these floors are slick.”

“They're hardwood.”

“Then your hardwood is f*****g slippery.”

Jericho rubbed a hand over his mouth, unsuccessfully hiding another smile.

Marisol pointed at him again. “Keep laughing. I'm a lawyer. I know exactly how much trouble I can get into before it becomes a felony.”

That earned another short laugh, but this time it died quickly.

Because beneath Marisol's anger, Jericho finally saw what he'd been too distracted to fully register before.

She was hurting.

Not irritated. Not simply angry with Elliot. Hurt.

Her makeup had held remarkably well throughout the night, but her eyes were slightly swollen, and there was an exhaustion in them that alcohol couldn't hide. Marisol Vargas had always been a force of nature. Even in college, she'd walked through rooms as if somebody had personally deeded her the floor beneath everyone's feet. She argued like she was cross-examining witnesses, loved like she had an endless supply to give, and somehow managed to make arrogance look charming.

The woman standing in front of him now looked like she'd been holding herself together with sheer spite.

Jericho's amusement disappeared.

“Marisol.”

“What?”

“Sit down.”

Her expression hardened immediately. “Don't tell me what to do.”

“Fine.” He gestured toward the sofa. “Would you please sit down before you break your ankle and sue me for premises liability?”

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Asshole.”

“Probably.”

She finally dropped onto the leather sofa with far less grace than she would have permitted sober. Jericho crossed to the bar and poured her a glass of water before placing it on the table in front of her.

Marisol eyed it suspiciously. “I didn't ask for that.”

“You also didn't ask for the last three drinks you had, but somehow they found you.”

“They were helping.”

“They have clearly finished helping.”

She picked up the water solely so she could glare at him over the rim. “I still hate you right now.”

“I'll survive.” Jericho took the chair across from her, his expression becoming serious again. “Now start from the beginning, because I genuinely have no idea what you're talking about.”

Marisol lowered the glass.

For the first time, she seemed uncertain.

“You really don't know?”

“No.”

“What about J.K. Holdings?”

Jericho's face gave her nothing. “I know the company.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

“Then ask me the right question.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You were always irritating.”

“And you were always impatient.”

“I had to be. I was constantly surrounded by idiots.”

That almost brought his smile back, but Jericho resisted it. “What does J.K. Holdings have to do with Elliot?”

Marisol stared at him for several seconds.

She didn't know whether it was the alcohol, the exhaustion, or simply the fact that Jericho's face belonged to a part of her life that existed before everything became so complicated. Their families had known each other for years. Her father still represented the Kings. She had known Jericho before she became Mrs. Newman, before she owned a law firm, before every decision she made carried consequences for employees, clients, and a family name larger than herself.

Whatever the reason, something inside her finally gave.

“I found an earring in my bathroom.”

Jericho frowned. “What?”

“That's where it started.”

And then Marisol told him everything.

She told him about finding the earring beneath the vanity and knowing immediately that it wasn't hers. She told him how she'd kept quiet, watched Elliot, and waited until she had the opportunity to get into his phone. She explained the hidden application, the messages between Elliot and Naomi, the pictures, the house, and the years of evidence documenting a relationship that had existed alongside their marriage.

Jericho didn't interrupt.

The longer she spoke, the stiller he became.

Then she told him about the children.

“There are two,” Marisol said softly, staring down at the water in her hands. “A boy and a girl.”

Jericho felt his jaw tighten.

“The little girl looks exactly like him.” Marisol laughed, but there wasn't anything remotely amused about the sound. “Same eyes. Same smile. I stared at that picture for so long trying to convince myself I was seeing something that wasn't there.”

She stopped speaking.

Jericho waited.

Marisol blinked rapidly and looked toward the opposite wall, but the tears came anyway.

“They're innocent. I know that. Those babies didn't do a damn thing to me, and I would never blame them for what their parents did.” Her voice cracked. “But seeing them hurt so f*****g bad, Jericho.”

He knew why.

Marisol had always wanted to be a mother.

She'd talked about it when they were younger without embarrassment, laughing about how she wanted a house full of children because growing up surrounded by family had been one of the things she'd loved most about her own childhood. She wanted little girls who looked like her, sons who would undoubtedly have her wrapped around their fingers, noisy Sunday dinners, birthday parties that took over the entire house.

He remembered because Marisol had mattered to him.

She still did.

“I kept thinking it would happen when it was supposed to happen,” she continued. “We were young. There wasn't a rush. I had the firm. He had work. Every time it didn't happen, I just told myself it wasn't our time yet.” She wiped beneath her eye and gave another broken laugh. “Maybe God knew exactly what He was doing.”

Jericho said nothing.

There was nothing he could say that wouldn't sound empty.

Then Marisol looked at him, and something in her expression made his anger sharpen.

“His parents knew.”

Jericho's eyes narrowed. “What?”

“There were pictures of them with the children. Birthdays. Holidays. His mother holding them like she'd been doing it their whole lives.” Marisol shook her head. “That woman sat across from me at dinner and asked when I was going to give her grandchildren.”

“While she already knew about them?”

“Yes.”

Jericho leaned back slowly.

That i***t.

Had he known Elliot Newman would do this to her, he wouldn't have backed away so easily all those years ago.

The thought came instantly, viciously.

Jericho had wanted Marisol for longer than he cared to admit, but by the time they were in college, the arrangement between the Vargas and Newman families had already been established. Marisol had chosen to honor it, and more importantly, she'd seemed happy. Jericho had no intention of becoming the man who hovered around another man's fiancée hoping her relationship would fail.

So he'd kept his distance.

Not completely. Their families were too close for that, and he enjoyed Marisol's company too much to pretend otherwise. But he'd respected the line.

Then she married Elliot.

And Jericho respected that line too.

Looking at her now, he wished he'd paid more attention to what had been happening on the other side of it.

His Mari looked broken.

He hated that thought almost as much as he hated the sight of tears on her face.

She wasn't his.

She had never been his.

But some truths didn't need ownership attached to them.

Jericho had loved Marisol Vargas quietly for years.

And right now, he saw nothing but red.

Marisol kept talking, apparently unaware that Jericho's thoughts had shifted from listening to imagining several creative ways Elliot could suffer an unfortunate accident.

“The affair isn't even the worst part anymore.”

That pulled him back.

“What do you mean?”

Marisol set the water down. “He's been stealing from me.”

Jericho's expression changed.

She explained the forensic accountant, the small transactions buried over years, the accounts she hadn't authorized and the properties purchased with her money. She told him about assets that had originally been connected to her name and were quietly transferred elsewhere. The amounts weren't always large enough to trigger immediate scrutiny, but taken together they formed a pattern too deliberate to dismiss.

“How long?” Jericho asked.

“Almost seven years.”

His eyes hardened. “That predates your marriage.”

“I know.”

The implication hung between them.

Marisol looked away first.

“I don't know what that means yet, and I'm not going to decide until I have evidence. But yes, I've thought about it.”

Elliot had begun stealing from her before he married her.

Jericho's anger turned glacial.

“And J.K. Holdings?” he asked.

Marisol rubbed her temple. “That's where everything gets strange.”

Jericho said nothing.

“I found a penthouse in Brickell that Elliot purchased using money tied to one of my accounts. I didn't know it existed. Somewhere along the way, ownership changed hands, and when I started tracing the transactions, J.K. Holdings appeared.”

Jericho's gaze remained fixed on her.

“Then I found it again,” she continued. “A transfer this time. Different amount, different account. Then again in another set of records. I knew the name looked familiar, so I went through some of my old case files. I've seen J.K. Holdings before professionally, but never enough to have any reason to investigate them.”

“How many transactions?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Approximate.”

Marisol frowned at the abrupt change in his tone. “Maybe a dozen I've personally found, but my accountant is still going through everything. Some are direct. Some are buried under other entities.”

Jericho's mind was already moving.

J.K. Holdings was his.

Elliot couldn't possibly know that.

Very few people did.

That was the entire point.

J.K. Holdings was legitimate on paper and operated legitimate businesses, but the layers separating Jericho from the corporation were deliberate. His anonymity wasn't vanity. It was protection. It allowed him to operate in rooms where the name Jericho King would change conversations before he ever entered them.

Elliot had apparently decided that anonymity made the company convenient.

He'd hidden transactions inside it because he assumed no one important would notice.

The i***t had been wrong.

Marisol studied him. “Why are you asking me questions like you're conducting an audit?”

Jericho met her gaze.

Because he was.

He simply wasn't ready to tell her why.

“What else did you find?”

“Jericho.”

“What else?”

Her eyes narrowed again. “You know something.”

“I know that if your husband has been stealing from you for seven years and using companies you don't recognize to move the money, you haven't found the bottom yet.”

Marisol went quiet.

That was the first thing he'd said tonight that frightened her.

Not because of the words.

Because of the certainty behind them.

She looked at him differently.

“Who are you?”

The question was half teasing, half suspicious.

Jericho smiled faintly. “You've known me most of your life.”

“That wasn't my question.”

“No.” His gaze held hers. “It wasn't.”

Before she could press him, pounding erupted against the locked door.

“Marisol!”

Nayeli.

Marisol closed her eyes and groaned.

“Mari, open this damn door! I swear to God, if you have gotten us in trouble, I am leaving you here!”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped Marisol.

The sound was small and exhausted, but it loosened something in Jericho's chest.

Another round of pounding followed.

“There are two men standing out here who look like they eat people for protein, Marisol!”

This time Marisol actually laughed.

She rose from the sofa, wiping beneath her eyes before smoothing her dress. The tears had left faint tracks through her makeup, but Jericho noticed something else as she crossed toward the door.

She looked lighter.

Not healed. Not even close.

But lighter.

As if unloading the truth had freed enough space inside her to breathe again.

“Nayeli,” Marisol called through the door.

“Open it!”

Marisol reached for the lock. “You were the one who told me to have fun tonight.”

“I meant dance! Maybe flirt! I did not mean disappear into a locked room with Jericho f*****g King!”

Marisol's hand froze on the lock.

Slowly, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

Jericho's eyebrow rose.

For the first time since she'd begun telling him everything, genuine mischief flickered through her tear-streaked expression.

“Oh, Nay,” she called, unlocking the door. “I think it's a little too late for that.”

The door opened and Nayeli immediately rushed inside, her eyes sweeping over Marisol's face before shooting accusingly toward Jericho.

Jericho barely noticed.

His mind was elsewhere.

J.K. Holdings.

Seven years of transactions.

Properties.

Shell companies.

Elliot Newman.

He reached for his phone again.

Marisol thought she'd spent the last several months investigating her husband.

She had no idea she'd just started an investigation of Jericho King too.