CHAPTER 3: THE UNSPOKEN DIVIDE
1104 Words
Noel returned from Zurich two days later, not triumphant, but exhausted, carrying the lingering scent of stale airplane cabin and expensive champagne. He burst into their private wing of the manor, dropping his briefcase and catching Ariel in a tight, relieved hug.
“I’m home, love. It’s done. We own Europe,” he murmured into her hair, burying his face there as if seeking a familiar anchor in the tumultuous wake of the merger.
Ariel held him just as tightly, trying desperately to recapture the feeling of pure joy and safety he always represented. But the security was fractured. The name Anderson now tasted like ash in her mouth, and the chilling words Operation Lighthouse and personal liabilities echoed between them, turning their embrace into a cage.
Noel, sensing her reserve, pulled back slightly, looking concerned. “You’re quiet. Everything alright with Father?”
Ariel manufactured a tired smile. “He’s fine. Just… overwhelming. I hate these big parties. I’m exhausted.”
Noel’s face softened immediately. “Of course. I’m sorry. We need out of here. I’m serious about that trip I promised. Let’s leave tomorrow. Just the two of us. We can fly up to the ski lodge—no guests, no Henry, just snow and silence.”
The ski lodge was their sanctuary, the place where Noel could shed his executive armor and Ariel could forget she was the Anderson outsider. She should have been thrilled. Instead, a cold dread coiled in her stomach. Leaving the manor now meant leaving her only chance to confirm what Henry was hiding.
“That sounds wonderful, Noel, but… can we postpone it a few days? I feel a nasty cold coming on. I really shouldn't be traveling.”
Noel frowned, disappointed, but immediately solicitous. “A cold? You look pale. See? Father was right, you need to slow down.” He ushered her to the massive bed, tucking her in as if she were porcelain.
The attempt at celebration over the successful merger was a quiet, strained affair. Noel was physically present but mentally distant, already pulled back into the demands of the company that consumed him. Ariel was distant too, trapped in the chilling knowledge she carried.
That night, lying next to her husband, listening to his deep, even breathing, Ariel made a decision. She couldn't leave the manor until she knew exactly what threat she was facing. She had to find the 'Lighthouse' file again.
The next morning, while Noel was on a crucial three-hour conference call with the London office, Ariel acted. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs, urging her to rush.
She went back to Henry’s study. The lock on the desk drawer was standard, but Henry was fastidious about security. Ariel knew he used a specific, complex numerical code for the main wall safe, but the desk drawer was always simpler—a sequence tied to his past. She tried her wedding anniversary—no. Noel’s birthday—no. She tried the date of the company’s founding—1972—and the lock clicked open.
Inside, beneath expense reports and old stock certificates, she found a slim, red leather folder. Inside, typed in small font, was the heading she dreaded: OPERATION LIGHTHOUSE MASTER LOG.
Ariel quickly scanned the dense pages. It wasn't simple tax evasion. It detailed systematic, global money laundering using dummy corporations across three continents, all designed to funnel billions into offshore accounts. The dates and transfer points were meticulously recorded. Noel's recent merger was mentioned, not as a business expansion, but as a critical new valve in the laundering pipeline.
Henry was using the Anderson name as a front for a massive criminal organization, and by merging with Europe, Noel was unwittingly cementing the crime.
Ariel replaced the file, closed the drawer, and locked it again, her hands shaking. The cruelty in the hospital room had a name: Blackmail. The accident had a motive: Silence.
She was no longer Noel’s wife, she was a witness to felony. And if Henry was willing to run her off the road for seeing a file, he would stop at nothing to eliminate her if she spoke.
The full weight of Henry's threat—to steal her children—crashed down on her with renewed force. She had to flee.
It was then, in the suffocating silence of Henry's study, that Ariel’s own body gave her the final, undeniable reason to run. A wave of profound nausea hit her, stronger and more intense than the fleeting queasiness she had dismissed in the previous weeks. She stumbled toward the adjacent private bathroom, leaning over the basin, her body betraying the secret she had not yet acknowledged.
She wasn't suffering from a cold. She was suffering from the beginning stages of pregnancy.
Later that afternoon, she discreetly drove to a small clinic on the outskirts of the city, using a cash payment and an assumed name. The confirmation was swift and absolute: she was six weeks pregnant. And the tests indicated twins.
Ariel sat in the small, empty examination room, the news reverberating through her. Two lives. Two innocent beings already swimming in the dangerous waters of the Anderson legacy.
The stakes had not just doubled; they had become infinite. Henry’s threat was no longer abstract. He wasn't just planning to sideline her; he was planning to seize two members of the Anderson bloodline that he could corrupt, control, or use as leverage against Noel.
She returned to the manor, the weight of the gold now unbearable, the scent of the flowers in the foyer cloying and sickening. She spent the entire evening observing Noel. He was handsome, exhausted, and wholly consumed by the legacy. He was already sinking his hands deeper into the criminal enterprise, mistaking it for honorable work. If she told him the truth now, he would be forced to choose between destroying his father (and his entire life) or protecting his family. The pressure would crush him, and Henry would simply crush her harder in response.
She had to make the choice for him. She had to create a clean, painful break that would protect the twins, even if it meant destroying Noel’s heart in the process.
That night, she held Noel tightly, letting him believe her distance was exhaustion, and letting him believe their life together was still real. It was the last night she would spend in the Anderson manor, and the final night of their marriage.
- Writer
