The Wrong Woman

Chapter Five: The Name That Changed Everything

Sofia Pov

By the time the office emptied, my eyes felt like sandpaper. The clock on the wall read 8:17 p.m.

Most normal people were home eating dinner. Some were watching television. Others were spending time with their families.

Meanwhile, I was buried beneath enough paperwork to build a small mountain. I rubbed my temples and leaned back in my chair.

The Baxter Development case was turning into a nightmare. Every time we thought we had found something useful, another dead end appeared. Another missing document. Another witness who suddenly refused to speak.bAnother record that somehow disappeared. It was becoming frustrating. And suspicious. Very suspicious.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. Maria stood in the doorway. She looked exhausted. Not surprising. Everyone was exhausted.

"You're still here?" she asked.

I laughed. "So are you."

"Unfortunately." She stepped inside. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then she placed a thin folder on my desk.

"I almost forgot."

I looked down. The folder looked old. Very old. The edges were worn. The papers inside had yellowed with age.

"What is it?"

"Storage records."

I frowned. "From Baxter?"

Maria nodded. "We found them in the archives this afternoon."

Immediately my interest sharpened. "Why wasn't this included in the discovery?"

"Good question."

I picked up the folder. A strange feeling settled in my stomach. The kind that appeared right before something important happened.

Maria noticed. "You okay?"

"Just tired."

That wasn't entirely true. But it was close enough.

She smiled softly. "Don't stay too late."

Then she left.

The office became silent once more. I stared at the folder. Then I opened it.

The first few pages contained financial records. Nothing unusual. The next section listed property acquisitions. Still nothing. I flipped another page. And froze.

A company name caught my attention. Whitmore Holdings. My eyes narrowed. I sat up straighter.

Why would Whitmore Holdings appear in Baxter's records? Carefully, I continued reading.

The further I went, the more frequently the name appeared. Contracts. Partnership agreements. Investment records. Financial transfers.

My pulse began to quicken. This wasn't a coincidence. Whitmore Holdings wasn't loosely connected to Baxter. It was deeply connected.

Far more deeply than anyone realized. I reached for a pen and began taking notes.

Minutes passed.nThen an hour.

The deeper I dug, the stranger everything became. Several documents referenced a project from twelve years ago.

A project that appeared repeatedly throughout the records. Blackridge. I frowned.

The name meant nothing to me. Yet every significant transaction seemed connected to it.

Another page. Another signature. Then another. And another. The same name appeared repeatedly.

Richard Whitmore. My stomach tightened. I knew the name. Everyone knew the name. Businessman. Political kingmaker.

One of the most influential men in the state. But what was he doing in these files? A cold sensation crawled down my spine. Something wasn't right. I could feel it.

The documents spread across my desk like pieces of a puzzle. And slowly, an ugly picture began to emerge. Someone had buried something. Something big.

My phone buzzed. The sudden sound made me jump. Daniel.

I smiled immediately. "Hey."

"You're still working."

I looked around the empty office. "Maybe."

"Sofia."

The warning in his voice made me laugh. "You sound exactly like Maria."

"Because Maria is smart."

I rolled my eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"Maybe."

At least he was honest. The conversation lasted several minutes. Long enough to ease some of the tension building inside me.

After hanging up, I returned to the documents. But my concentration was gone. My mind kept returning to Richard Whitmore.

The connection bothered me. A lot. Finally, I decided to call it a night. I gathered the files. Locked them inside my desk drawer.

Then I grabbed my bag. Outside, the city glowed beneath a sea of lights. Traffic filled the streets. People hurried along the sidewalks. Life moved on.

Completely unaware that my entire case might have just changed. My phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't a call. It was a news notification.

Normally I ignored them. Tonight I didn't.

The headline immediately caught my attention.

WHITMORE HEIR ATTENDS CHARITY GALA WITH FIANCÉE

I almost kept scrolling. Then I saw the photograph. And stopped walking. The world seemed to freeze around me. My breath caught. No. It couldn't be. I stared harder.

The man smiling beside reporters. The man standing beside a beautiful blonde woman. The man was wearing an expensive black suit. I knew him. I knew that face. Caleb.

The man from the courthouse. The man from the coffee shop. The man who had asked me out. My pulse hammered violently.

Slowly, I opened the article.bThe name appeared immediately. Caleb Whitmore. My stomach dropped. Whitmore. The same surname. The same family. The same family connected to the documents sitting inside my desk.

Suddenly everything felt different. Every conversation. Every smile. Every accidental encounter. Had he known? No. Surely not. Yet doubt crept in anyway.

I looked back at the photograph. Then at the article. Then back again. The resemblance was impossible to miss now. The eyes. The jawline. The smile. Father and son.

The realization struck like lightning. Richard Whitmore. Caleb Whitmore. My case. My investigation. My growing attraction. Everything had just collided.

A car horn sounded nearby, pulling me back to reality. I barely noticed. My thoughts were racing too fast. Questions flooded my mind.

Had Caleb approached me because of the case? Was it a coincidence? Could it really be a coincidence? Or was I being naive?

For the first time since meeting him, uncertainty replaced curiosity. And uncertainty was dangerous.

My phone vibrated once more. A new message appeared. Unknown Number. My heartbeat slowed.

Then accelerated. I opened it. A photograph filled the screen. My blood ran cold. It was me. Standing outside the coffee shop. Talking to Caleb.

The picture had clearly been taken from a distance. Without my knowledge. Without my permission. Beneath the image were six simple words. Stay away from the Whitmore family. I stopped breathing.

The sidewalk s

uddenly felt unsteady beneath my feet. Because I had never given anyone this number. And whoever sent that message...

Had been watching me.