Chapter 6
Emma
Sebastian pressed a button on his desk phone. "David. Come in."
The door opened immediately. His assistant walked in carrying a slim black box.
"Ms. Hartley will need a new phone," Sebastian said without looking at either of us. "Encrypted. Three contacts—mine, yours, Zenith reception. Her old number stays active but this is how we communicate. Set it up now."
David opened the box. A new iPhone, still wrapped. He powered it on and started configuring it while I sat there watching my life reorganize itself around Sebastian's requirements.
"Passcode?" David asked me.
I gave him one. He entered it, added the contacts, handed it to me. The screen showed three names. That was all. Like I didn't exist outside of this arrangement.
"Keep your old phone," Sebastian said. "Use it for everything else. This one is for me. When I call or text on this, you answer immediately. Understood?"
I nodded. My throat was too tight to speak.
David left. Sebastian pushed a folder across the desk. "Bank transfer confirmation. Your father's facility will receive payment by 8 PM. The rest clears your other debts."
I opened it. Saw the numbers. Half a million dollars moving from his account to the hospital. Another $120,000 divided into monthly payments. The debt to Derek Morrison—gone. The credit cards—gone. Everything I'd been drowning in, erased with a signature.
"Your father's bill will be cleared by 8 PM," he said. "You can see him tomorrow once they move him to the psychiatric wing."
He walked to the window. Pulled out a cigar. Lit it.
I was dismissed.
I stood up. My legs felt unsteady. I had two phones in my bag now. One that was mine. One that belonged to him. One that connected me to my life. One that connected me to whatever I'd just agreed to become.
At the door I stopped. Looked back.
He was standing at the window with his back to me, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. The city spread out below him like he'd conquered it.
Like he'd just conquered me.
I left.
By 2 PM the hospital confirmed the transfer. "Your father's account is current. You can visit tomorrow once they moves him to the psychiatric wing."
Tomorrow. Not today.
I stood on the corner outside Zenith's building, staring at nothing. The money was there. Dad was stable. The crisis was over.
I should have felt relief.
Instead I felt numb.
I'd signed a contract that made me available to Sebastian Pierce for six months. I'd signed away my right to privacy, to autonomy, to any pretense that my body was my own. I'd done it with my eyes open. I'd done it knowing exactly what it meant.
And I'd do it again. That was the worst part. If he put that contract in front of me right now, I'd sign it again. Because the alternative was watching Dad die.
The new phone sat heavy in my bag. Black. Sleek. Expensive. A leash disguised as technology.
It didn't ring. Didn't buzz. Just sat there waiting.
I took the subway back to Brooklyn.
Wednesday. 9 AM. Connecticut State Psychiatric Hospital. Old brick building with bars on some of the windows. Security checkpoint at the entrance where they checked my ID and made me empty my pockets into a plastic bin.
They led me through locked doors that buzzed and clicked behind me. Down hallways that smelled like disinfectant and despair. To room 512.
Dad sat by the window in hospital clothes—loose cotton pants and a button-up shirt that hung on his frame. IV in his left arm. Hair thinner than I remembered. Face gray.
When he heard the door open, he turned.
"Emma." His voice was rough. "You came."
"Of course I came." I pulled a chair close and took his hand. It felt like paper. Like if I held too tight it would tear.
We sat in silence. I didn't know what to say. I'm sorry felt too small. It's going to be okay felt like a lie.
"The bills," he said finally. "They told me everything's paid. The whole account. How did you—"
"I handled it. Don't worry about that."
His eyes filled. "Emma, I'm so sorry. I should have been more careful. I should have seen it coming." His voice cracked. "The investment looked so solid. All the paperwork was in order. I checked everything twice."
I squeezed his hand gently. "Dad, do you remember the last few months before everything collapsed? Who was helping you with the fund documents?"
He frowned, trying to focus through the medication fog. "There was that young man from the compliance firm. Very professional. Had all the right credentials." A pause. "Why do you ask?"
"I'm just trying to understand the timeline. When did Sophia start coming by the office?"
"Sophia?" He looked confused. "Your sister visited a few times last year. Said she wanted to learn about the business. Linda thought it would be good for her." His brow furrowed. "She asked a lot of questions about the offshore accounts. I thought she was just curious."
My chest tightened. "What kind of questions?"
"About the signature protocols. The wire transfer procedures." He shook his head slowly. "I didn't think anything of it at the time. She's family."
Family. The word tasted bitter.
"Did she ever meet with anyone while she was there? Any of your business partners?"
Dad's eyes went distant. "I don't... I can't remember clearly anymore. Everything from that time is jumbled." His hands started to shake. "I keep trying to figure out where I went wrong. What I missed."
The pieces were starting to fit together. Sophia asking about signature protocols. Adrian suddenly having access to offshore account information. The forged documents that appeared with Dad's signature. The timing of it all—right after I'd introduced Adrian to the family, right when Sophia started her "curious" visits to Dad's office.
It made sense. Too much sense.
But I couldn't be sure. Not yet. Suspicion wasn't proof. The pattern felt right but patterns could be coincidence. I needed documents. Wire transfer records. Email trails. Something concrete that connected Adrian to the forged signatures, that showed Sophia passing information.
Without evidence, it was just a theory. A terrible, plausible theory that explained everything—but still just a theory.
And I couldn't tell Dad. Not when he was like this, medicated and fragile, blaming himself for mistakes he might not have made. Not when I didn't have proof. What if I was wrong? What if I accused them and it turned out to be something else entirely?
But I wasn't wrong. I knew I wasn't wrong.
I just had to prove it.
His eyes were starting to lose focus. The medication pulling him under.
"I'm tired," he whispered. "So tired."
"Mr. Hartley needs to rest now," a nurse said from the doorway.
I sat for another moment watching him. The way his shoulders slumped forward. The tremor in his hands even when they were still.
I thought about Adrian's face that night in the parking garage. The ring I'd given him still on his finger. The way he'd waved me off like I was nothing.
I thought about Sophia's smile through the car window.
Something hardened in my chest. Quiet and cold.
Every document. Every transfer. Every lie. I was going to find all of it.
And then I was going to make sure it couldn't be buried.
