Chapter 3 - THE BETRAYAL BEHIND THE BETRAYAL
At 7:06 on the morning of my canceled wedding, I walked into Whitmore House wearing yesterday's clothes.
My wedding was supposed to begin in two hours.
Instead, I was standing in an empty showroom with an attorney I'd never met, looking at evidence that someone had been preparing to destroy my company.
Julian Cross was thirty-seven, perhaps thirty-eight.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Dressed in a charcoal suit that looked expensive without trying to impress anyone.
He had the composed expression of a man who had learned that panic rarely improved a difficult situation.
Natalie stood beside me.
My brother Daniel had insisted on coming too.
Julian placed a folder on the conference table.
“Before we begin, I need to explain something.”
“Please do.”
“My client is Northbridge Capital. We're evaluating a minority investment in Whitmore House.”
“I know. Your firm is conducting due diligence.”
“Correct.”
“Then why are you here on a Saturday morning?”
He opened the folder.
“Because an anonymous source sent our investment committee a confidential report at eleven forty last night.”
My stomach tightened.
“What report?”
“An allegation that Whitmore House copied proprietary designs belonging to another fashion company.”
I stared at him.
“Which company?”
“Bellamy Atelier.”
The name meant something.
Bellamy was a struggling luxury label with powerful financial backers and a reputation for aggressive litigation.
We had competed against them for a department store contract six months earlier.
Whitmore House had won.
Bellamy had not been gracious.
“That's ridiculous,” I said.
Julian nodded.
“The allegations appear suspicious.”
He turned his laptop toward me.
On the screen were photographs of six garments from our upcoming fall collection.
My collection.
Designs I'd spent fourteen months developing.
Beside them were sketches labeled as Bellamy property.
The similarities were unmistakable.
Too unmistakable.
My throat tightened.
“These are my designs.”
“I suspected that.”
“Those sketches were created after mine.”
“That may be true.”
“It is true.”
“Then we need evidence.”
I leaned forward.
“Where did they get these?”
Julian clicked another document.
An email.
Sent from a private address.
Attached to it was a nondisclosure agreement bearing my signature.
I stared.
“I've never seen this.”
“The document claims you received Bellamy's design materials during a confidential consulting arrangement.”
“I never consulted for Bellamy.”
Julian nodded.
“That's why I contacted you.”
Daniel leaned across the table.
“Can you prove the signature is fake?”
“Possibly. But we need the original files, signature metadata, and an independent forensic examination.”
Natalie crossed her arms.
“Why would Brooke do this?”
Nobody answered.
Because the obvious answer was too terrible.
Money.
Revenge.
Or something more personal.
Julian opened a second file.
“There's another problem.”
I almost smiled.
“Of course there is.”
“Northbridge received a revised financial forecast showing a significant cash shortage.”
I shook my head.
“Our forecast doesn't show that.”
“This one does.”
He showed me the spreadsheet.
I recognized the format immediately.
Our internal financial model.
Except several numbers had been altered.
Projected revenue was lower.
Manufacturing costs were higher.
Our fall launch appeared dangerously underfunded.
The document suggested Whitmore House would need emergency financing within six weeks.
“Who prepared this?”
“The metadata identifies your finance director.”
“That's impossible. Martin would never—”
I stopped.
Julian noticed.
“What?”
“Martin's been on medical leave for twelve days.”
Julian said nothing.
“Someone used his name.”
“That's one possibility.”
I looked toward the glass-walled office where Brooke usually sat.
Her desk was immaculate.
A pale pink notebook.
A gold pen.
A framed photograph of her golden retriever.
The same harmless, cheerful objects I'd seen every morning for nineteen months.
I suddenly wanted to throw them through a window.
Instead, I called our IT contractor.
By eight o'clock, Brooke's accounts had been suspended pending investigation.
By eight thirty, we had secured our design archives and instructed employees not to delete any company records.
At nine fifteen, the hour I was supposed to walk down the aisle, I received a call from Evan.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“What?”
“Claire, we need to talk.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“I'm busy.”
“Brooke told me you locked her out of the company.”
I looked at Julian.
He raised one eyebrow.
“She's being investigated for unauthorized access,” I said.
Evan sounded furious.
“She's pregnant, Claire.”
I closed my eyes.
“Pregnancy doesn't grant unlimited access to confidential business information.”
“She says you're punishing her.”
“Of course she does.”
“She could sue you.”
“Then she should hire an attorney.”
He lowered his voice.
“Claire, don't make this ugly.”
Something inside me snapped.
“You canceled our wedding ten hours before the ceremony because you impregnated my assistant. And you're calling me ugly?”
Silence.
Then he said, “She's scared.”
“Goodbye, Evan.”
I hung up.
Julian studied me.
“Does he know about the allegations?”
“I don't think so.”
“Then don't tell him.”
“Why?”
“Because he may tell her.”
I looked at the phone.
For the first time, I realized something that should have been obvious.
Evan had never been particularly interested in my company.
He knew I worked hard.
He knew I was exhausted.
He knew I sometimes came home after midnight.
But he had never asked detailed questions about our investors, suppliers, or proprietary designs.
Brooke had.
Constantly.
She'd seemed eager to learn.
Ambitious.
Dedicated.
I had encouraged her.
Promoted her.
Paid for professional development courses.
Given her access to people she'd never otherwise have met.
I had mistaken proximity for loyalty.
At noon, my mother called.
“Sweetheart, the venue wants to know what to do with the flowers.”
I looked at Natalie.
She mouthed, Donate them.
“Send them to hospitals,” I said. “And nursing homes. Anywhere they'll be appreciated.”
My mother went quiet.
Then she said, “Your grandmother would be proud of you.”
I nearly cried.
Instead, I asked her to handle the arrangements.
At two that afternoon, Julian's forensic consultant arrived.
Her name was Priya Shah.
She was a compact woman with sharp eyes and an extraordinary ability to make complicated computer evidence sound terrifyingly simple.
She examined the logs.
Compared file timestamps.
Reviewed authentication records.
Then she asked me a question.
“Who had physical access to your laptop while you were in Boston?”
“Brooke.”
“Anyone else?”
“Possibly my office manager.”
“Was your laptop here?”
“Yes.”
Priya turned the screen toward me.
“Someone accessed your account at 9:42 p.m. on Evan's birthday.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“That was when Brooke was supposed to be at dinner with him.”
Priya nodded.
“The login came from a device connected to your office network.”
“Could it have been remote?”
“Possibly. We need to establish that.”
She scrolled.
“There's something else.”
A second login.
Same night.
Different account.
I leaned closer.
“Whose?”
Priya looked at Julian.
Then back at me.
“Evan Mercer's.”
I stared at her.
“That can't be right.”
She showed me the record.
Evan had occasionally used our office conference room when working remotely.
I had allowed IT to set up a guest account for him.
A harmless convenience.
Or so I'd thought.
“His account accessed a shared folder containing your investor presentation,” Priya said.
My heart began pounding.
“Could Brooke have used it?”
“Yes.”
“Could Evan have accessed it himself?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward Julian.
He said nothing.
I wanted him to tell me there was an innocent explanation.
He didn't.
Then Priya opened another record.
“A large archive was copied that night.”
“How large?”
“Enough to contain your entire fall collection.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I gripped the table.
“Where did it go?”
“We're tracing that.”
Priya examined the destination information.
Her expression sharpened.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“The transfer was routed through a storage service associated with a registered business.”
She clicked the registration details.
A company name appeared.
MERCER STRATEGIC CONSULTING LLC.
I stared.
Evan had started that company two years earlier.
He'd told me it was for occasional freelance marketing projects.
I had helped him choose the logo.
My mouth went dry.
“That's my fiancé's company.”
Priya looked at me.
“Are you certain?”
“Ex-fiancé.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
Julian closed the folder slowly.
Then he asked the question I had been avoiding since morning.
“Claire, are you absolutely certain Evan's affair began nine weeks ago?”
I looked at the screen.
At his company's name.
At the date of the transfer.
May you like
And for the first time, I wondered whether Brooke had been the betrayal.
Or merely the distraction.
