Loving My Husband's Murderer

3-The Car Ride

It was late at night when I leaned back on my office chair and let out an amused chuckle, shaking my head. It was freaking smart. Really smart. I was so engrossed in the case that I didn't notice when the office started emptying, and there was no one but me in the cabin.

Vincent couldn't be seen in his cabin either. His cabin looked empty without him; even less intimidating. And suddenly, the idea of snooping around his files overpowered my senses. I must find something worth destroying him and his million-dollar company. I got up from my chair, looking around before opening the door of my cabin, when a six-foot-tall, brooding man suddenly appeared in front of me out of nowhere.

A startled shriek escaped my throat, making the silver-eyed man raise his left eyebrow at me. I looked away from him, breathing heavily. One, I almost got caught by him; and two, the man scared me by appearing out of thin air.

What was he? A freaking ghost?

"It's—" Vincent started, looking down at his watch before looking at me again. "—nine in the night, Miss Sinclair. Your job ends at five in the evening. I wonder what you were doing so late in the office."

With Vincent so close to me, merely inches apart, I could see him more clearly. Even after working for an entire day, he looked fresh as new. His suit was perfectly in place. His hair perfectly reigned over his head. With so close, Vincent looked far more daunting than the Vincent behind the wall. Distance, indeed, played an important role.

"Working on the case you assigned me. After all, recovering two million dollars from a company you couldn't recover a single penny from for the past six years ain't an easy job." I said, taking a couple of steps back, maintaining a safe distance between us.

His lips curled up in an amused yet calculating smile. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me.

"Are you complaining, Miss Sinclair?" He asked me, making me raise my eyebrows at him.

"Of course not, Sir. But I was just wondering if you assign impossible tasks to everyone here, or if the new ones have your special attention." I said, and I saw something flickering in his eyes before he let out a dark chuckle.

"I don't hand out easy money, Miss Sinclair. And as for new employees, betrayal seems easy to them. So, I must find out which category they belong to before trusting my company with them." He said and started walking towards my desk.

His eyes wandered around the documents, the circled figures on the balance sheet, my laptop, and whatnot.

"Any progress?" He asked me, and I hummed in response, nodding my head as I pointed towards the revenue and the expenses of the company.

"Blackthorne Ltd. has been shown bankrupted for the past five years. Their revenues have fallen sharply over the years, but surprisingly, their operating costs have barely taken any brunt." I said, and Vincent raised his eyebrows at me.

"You're saying?"

"If the company truly went bankrupt, they should have cut down their expenses somehow. But there is no reduction in expenses. There have been no severe layoffs. In fact, every year, a suspiciously large amount of money is transferred to a foreign firm that has just three employees. The math just don't add up, Mr. Black. Blackthorne isn't really bankrupt. He is just diverting his funds to another firm." I said, pushing the file towards him, showing him the marked figures.

His eyes moved from the figures on the file towards me and let out a soft chuckle, making me raise my eyebrows at me.

"I must give it to you, Miss Sinclair. You identified the loophole sooner than I expected," He said, his silver eyes boring into mine.

He took a step forward. And then another. And a couple more until I could practically smell him. Smell his masculine cologne. It took everything inside me not to step back. Standing so close, I had to stretch my neck to meet his eyes, and he had to bend his neck a little to bestow me his attention.

"Are you sure you have never worked in a business before, Miss Sinclair? Because your intelligence is suspicious."

His question made my breath hitch for a split second. Of course, I was a part of the business class. Even if I never ran an individual business. I always worked in the shadows, helped my husband and father.

"Intelligence is only suspicious when you are surrounded by dishonest people, Mr. Black. And if a newbie's intelligence has shaken you up, I am concerned about your company's talent."

A dark chuckle echoing in the otherwise empty cabin wasn't the response I was expecting from my boss. He wasn't amused; not even in the slightest. The laughter was dangerous. The hair on the back of my neck stood up in protest.

"Do you know how many people have tried killing me, Miss Sinclair?" Vincent asked me, making me lick my lips. The question caught me off guard.

"So—sorry?"

"Twenty-seven." Was his response.

He took another step forward, and this time, my body involuntarily took a step back. It was nothing but self-defense, or so I told myself.

"And do you know how many of these people worked for me? Staying with me? Pretending to be my well-wishers?"

When I spoke nothing again, he took it as a cue to answer himself.

The sound of his shoes echoed in the room. And my heels followed the lead; they clicked when I took another step back in response to him heading towards me. His predatory gaze made my throat parched.

"Twenty-four."

His lips quirked up in a dark, predatory smile. My stomach tightened with an unexplainable, unidentifiable anxiety.

"And do you know how many of them made it out alive, Miss Sinclair?" He asked me, making me lick my lips.

For some reason, I couldn't speak. My voice had died inside my throat somewhere. It looked like even my voice and body took orders from the man in front of me when he looked so dauntingly dangerous and fearsome.

"None." Was his reply.

"So tell me, pray, is your intelligence a mere coincidence for my company or your planned catastrophe for me?" He asked me, his eyes burning with fire, almost ready to burn everything he set them on.

When he moved forward once again, and the distance between us shortened painfully, I took one last step back. My back pressed against the wall. The cool concrete made me shudder. Or maybe it wasn't just the cold wall behind me. It was the man in front of me— calculative, dangerous, intimidating, and shrewd — that made me tremble.

It had to be him.

"Because Miss Sinclair, if it's a planned catastrophe, I'd suggest you work hard for it. Because once caught, you'd beg for mercy, and that's the only thing Vincent Black lacks in the entire world."

And with that, he pulled his face away from me. It was only when he took a few steps away that I found myself breathing. My chest was heaving up and down. My heart was palpating erratically.

When I was struggling to breathe, Vincent, very casually, pocketed his hands and pulled out a key.

"Come, Miss Sinclair. I'll drop you off at home," He said, already walking ahead of me.

It took me a couple of seconds to come back to my senses. And when I did, I immediately snapped out of my little misery party.

"No, Mr. Black. You don't need to trouble yourself. I'll get myself a cab."

He stopped walking the second I opposed. He looked back, his perfectly shaped eyebrows arching up, a ghostly smile playing on his face. But his tone lacked any kind of mirth, his smile hinted. The man had a talent for smiling in the most dangerous ways.

"Funny how you're under the impression that I was offering you a choice, Miss Sinclair." He said, making me scoff.

Of—freaking—course.

"Funny how you thought I gave you the right to boss me around, Mr. Black. It's after office hours. I am not bound to obey you. Consider this as my cue to leave. Have a pleasant night, Mr. Black." I nodded my head as I spoke, ready to sprint out of the office.

"You know, Miss Sinclair, I have spent a good part of my life giving opportunities for people to abide by me willingly. But years of experience have taught me that the aftermath has always been the same, regardless of their will," He said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, making me swallow harshly.

"And while I was not being authoritative, instead being courteous, you're tempting me to change it. Now, save us both the detour and follow me."

And just like that, I found myself walking behind him, the murderer of my husband. Quietly. Obediently.

But what he didn't know was that the sword was often carried in the silence of obedience and cracked when loyalty reached its supremacy.

________

Vincent's car was everything that books describe: expensive, sophisticated, and classy. The sleek black car stood alone in the parking lot. Though I really am not unfamiliar with luxury cars, I have never seen or owned the car he had.

It was a limited edition.

As far as I remember, it was the same car Adrian always wanted. Right from the day it was launched. But the company launched only fifty cars worldwide, and the price was too high for us to afford. And even if we had the money, the car company only served the higher and upper elite class.

Even when we were rich and ran successful businesses, we could never reach that elite group that got the firsthand opportunity to buy such limited-edition cars.

When Vincent started driving, I opened my mouth to tell him my address, but much to my surprise, he had already filled in my address in his car for directions, and my heart froze for a second before beating uncannily fast.

"How do you know where I live?" I asked him, my voice sharp, but fear gripped my tone. Even when it didn't show in my voice, my insides trembled.

After all, sharing a small space with a murderer wasn't really a thrilling idea and experience.

"I know way more than you think, Miss Sinclair. And seeing how surprised and terrified you look, I would strongly suggest against knowing what else I know." He said, his eyes glinting with dark amusement.

When my mouth refused to cooperate, my voice died inside me.

Silent laughter filled the room. Shaking his head slightly, he removed a bottle of water from his side and handed it to me. When I didn't take the bottle from his hand, his lips quirked up in a satisfied and sadistic smile.

"Drink it. I haven't poisoned it." He said, and I stared at him warily. "I don't kill by deception, Miss Sinclair. Where's the fun in that? Until your enemy fears every single moment of their life, dies anticipating that today might be their last day, there's no fun in actually killing them."

It was fun for him. I could see it in the way he kept looking at me as he spoke, as if savoring the moment of fear. I knew he was enjoying it.

And just like that, a thought coursed in my mind.

What else did Vincent know about me?

Was my cover blown even before I started my story of revenge?