14: Hollingsworth Thread
1060 Words
They drove in silence, the city’s lights blurring past as rain hammered the windshield. The stolen ledgers sat between them on the seat — a quiet monster wrapped in damp paper and fear.
Sebastian’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “We can’t go back to the mansion. It’s compromised.”
Amara clutched the folder tighter. “Then where?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “There’s a safe flat in Pasig. Celine and I used it years ago when Cruz Holdings went through a corporate raid. No one outside my inner circle knows it exists.”
Amara nodded numbly, though the name written inside the ledger echoed in her head like a curse.
Celeste Hollingsworth.
At the gala, Celeste had been gracious, elegant — the kind of woman whose smile could open doors and close bank accounts. Philanthropist. Board member of the Cruz Medical Foundation. One of the city’s favorite “angels.”
Now she was a link in the chain.
⸻
They reached the flat just before dawn — a modest high-rise apartment overlooking the river. No guards. No cameras. Just silence.
Sebastian locked the door behind them and dropped the ledgers on the table. “We need to know exactly what we’re holding.”
He opened the first book. Lines of coded entries filled the pages — dollar signs, clinic IDs, initials. Amara’s medical training gave her enough familiarity to recognize what the codes meant: blood types, organ classifications, procedural costs.
“Each one of these is a transaction,” she murmured. “A life bought, a life sold.”
Sebastian nodded grimly. “And Hollingsworth’s name appears forty-seven times. She wasn’t just a silent partner. She was the broker — laundering profits through her foundation.”
Amara stared at him. “She used charity donations to fund illegal surgeries.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Every peso that passed through her hands was a cleaned payment for something unthinkable.”
She exhaled shakily. “And the world calls her a saint.”
Sebastian’s mouth twisted. “Angels wear the sharpest halos.”
He turned another page — this one stamped with Eduardo Cruz’s personal seal. “He built this network after Veronica’s death. Celeste helped him expand it internationally. Every clinic, every donor program — all of it tied to the Cruz brand.”
Amara leaned over the table, tracing one set of initials. “This… this looks familiar.”
Sebastian glanced down. “What is it?”
“It’s one of the patient ID formats used at Saint Isadora Hospital — the same hospital where I worked.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “They’re using Saint Isadora as a pipeline.”
Her stomach dropped. “I trusted those doctors.”
He touched her hand lightly — a rare, grounding gesture. “You couldn’t have known.”
Amara pulled her hand back, trembling. “I should’ve. I saw the inconsistencies in donor files. The missing paperwork. I thought it was clerical error.” She laughed bitterly. “I never imagined it was murder in disguise.”
⸻
By afternoon, they had compiled enough evidence to implicate Eduardo, Celeste, and several hospital directors. But evidence was only power if it could breathe — and the air around them was already growing thin.
Celine arrived, carrying a bag of burner phones. “They found the warehouse,” she said. “Whoever was tailing you wiped the place clean. The informant’s dead.”
Amara felt a chill. “They killed him.”
“Execution style,” Celine said flatly. “They wanted to send a message.”
Sebastian’s face darkened. “We send one back.”
Celine raised a brow. “How?”
“Through Hollingsworth.” He tapped the ledger. “She’s the connection between the family empire and the outside network. If she falls, the rest will scramble to protect themselves.”
Amara frowned. “You want to confront her?”
Sebastian’s voice was ice. “I want her to confess on record.”
“That’s suicide,” Celine warned. “Eduardo will have her guarded.”
Amara looked between them. “Not if she thinks she’s still untouchable.”
Both of them turned to her.
Amara continued, her voice steady despite the dread curling in her chest. “She knows me — the poor nurse who suddenly became Mrs. Cruz. If I reach out, pretend I’m scared, she’ll think she can buy me. She’ll try to use me to get to Sebastian.”
Sebastian shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“It’s the only way,” Amara insisted. “She won’t talk to journalists or lawyers. But she’ll talk to someone she thinks she can manipulate.”
He glared at her, every protective instinct flashing through his eyes. “You’d be walking straight into a trap.”
“Then I’ll make sure it’s mine, not hers.”
Celine gave a low whistle. “She’s got your blood, boss.”
Sebastian turned away, jaw tight. “I’m not sending her into that alone.”
Amara took a deep breath. “Then don’t. Let me walk into the fire, but stay close enough to pull me out.”
⸻
That night, Amara sent the message.
From: Amara Velasquez
To: Celeste Hollingsworth
Subject: I know what you did.
No response came for an hour. Then her phone buzzed.
My dear, threats don’t suit you. Come have tea tomorrow at the conservatory. Noon. No bodyguards. Let’s talk like civilized women.
Sebastian read the message over her shoulder. “Civilized women,” he muttered. “Translation: armed escorts and poison.”
Amara smiled faintly. “Then I’ll drink first.”
He caught her arm. “No jokes.”
Her expression softened. “Then promise me something.”
“What?”
“That when this is over — when he’s gone — you’ll stop living in the shadows.”
He hesitated. “And if I can’t?”
“Then I’ll drag you into the light myself.”
⸻
By midnight, the rain had stopped. The river below the flat gleamed with city lights, restless and golden.
Sebastian stood by the window, watching the current flow, thinking about how easily things could vanish beneath the surface.
Behind him, Amara closed her laptop, slid the ledger into her bag, and whispered,
“Tomorrow, we start breaking heaven’s favorite angel.”
- Writer
