Chapter 1 Betrayal and Crisis
Harper
The scent of roasted garlic and seared ribeye filled the penthouse as I put the finishing touches on our anniversary dinner. I carefully arranged the hand-picked roses in the crystal vase—Rowan's favorite burgundy shade—and stepped back to admire my work. The dining room glowed with candlelight, casting warm shadows across the polished mahogany table.
I glanced at my watch. 8:47 PM. Rowan was nearly two hours late.
I absentmindedly touched my stomach, a small smile playing on my lips. Though our marriage had begun as a business arrangement—the merger of two tech dynasties through an orchestrated union—the past year had transformed into something I hadn't expected. Rowan's initial coldness had gradually melted into tender moments: surprise weekend getaways, late-night conversations about quantum computing, his arms wrapped around me as we fell asleep.
"He promised," I whispered to myself, remembering Rowan's words on our wedding day. Even if this isn't a love match, I'll be good to you, Harper.
Three unanswered calls later, I made a decision. I grabbed my keys and coat, heading for the Whitaker Holdings headquarters. The Los Angeles skyline blurred through sheets of rain as I drove, windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour. The weather matched my growing unease.
The security guard recognized me immediately. "Mrs. Whitaker, didn't expect to see you tonight."
"Is my husband still upstairs, Marcus?"
"Yes, ma'am. Shall I call up?"
"No need. I'll surprise him."
The elevator ascended to the executive floor in silence. My heels clicked softly against the marble as I approached Rowan's office. Light spilled from the partially open door, along with hushed voices. I slowed my pace instinctively.
"The latest tests are promising," came Serena Vaughn's unmistakable voice. "The doctor says everything is developing perfectly."
I froze, then inched closer to the door.
Through the gap, I saw Rowan seated in his leather chair. Serena stood beside him, elegant in a form-fitting dress that accentuated her slightly rounded stomach. I watched, paralyzed, as Serena took Rowan's hand and placed it gently on her belly.
"Our son is strong, just like his father," Serena said softly. "He'll be a true Whitaker."
The expression on Rowan's face shattered my world—tender amazement, tense, and something I had never seen directed at me: pure, unguarded love.
The amber desk lamp bathed them in a golden glow, a perfect tableau of expectant parents sharing an intimate moment.
I stumbled backward, bumping against a side table. The sound went unnoticed by the couple inside. My mind raced through memories that now felt like elaborate deceptions: Rowan's late nights "at the office," his sudden business trips, the careful way he'd maintained physical distance between us the past month.
I fled to the elevator, tears blurring my vision. In my car, the dam broke. Sobs wracked my body as rain hammered against the windshield.
"Stupid," I whispered between gasps. "So stupid to think he'd ever..." My hand drifted to my stomach again. What about our child? A baby Rowan didn't know about—didn't want.
My phone rang, cutting through my breakdown. My mother's name flashed on the screen.
"Harper?" Mom's voice trembled. "It's your father. There's been an accident."
Twenty minutes later, I rushed through the antiseptic corridors of St. John's Hospital. My mother's fragile frame hunched on a plastic chair outside the intensive care unit.
"Mom!" I embraced her. "What happened?"
Her eyes were red-rimmed and vacant. "The Sinclair chip—there was a massive security breach. Customer data exposed across multiple platforms. Our stock is plummeting."
"The chip? But we ran every possible security test—"
"Wyatt was investigating. He said something wasn't right, that someone had deliberately compromised the code. He received an email tonight—said he had proof and needed to meet someone." Mom's voice broke. "They're saying he lost control of the car, but your father has driven that road hundreds of times..."
A doctor emerged from the emergency room, his expression grim. "Mrs. Sinclair? Your husband's condition is critical. The impact caused severe trauma to his brain stem. We're doing everything we can, but you should prepare yourselves."
He handed me a plastic bag containing my father's belongings. I fumbled with Dad's phone, the screen cracked but still functional. The last message made my blood run cold:
"Confirmation: $2M transferred from Whitaker Holdings to Peterson's offshore account. Your research director took the money and implemented the backdoor. -Source"
My mind pieced together the horrifying puzzle. James Peterson, our research director, had disappeared three days ago. Whitaker Holdings—Rowan's company—was our biggest competitor in the chip security sector.
The betrayal cut deeper than I could have imagined. Not just my marriage, but my entire family had been a target.
I stepped away from my mother, mind racing. Whitaker influence ran deep in Los Angeles—police, media, financial institutions. I couldn't fight this here. Not now. Not alone.
"I need to get you and Dad somewhere safe," I whispered to my mother. "And I need to disappear for a while."
Five years later
The first-class cabin of Swiss Air flight 422 from Geneva to Los Angeles hummed with quiet efficiency. I gazed out the window, barely recognizing the reflection of the woman I'd become. My eyes were sharper now, my posture more assured, nothing like the naive bride of five years ago.
"The board at Intellect is thrilled about your acceptance of the executive position," my assistant Isla said, reviewing notes on her tablet. "Your reputation as H.S. has the entire industry buzzing. We've received meeting requests from five major companies already."
I nodded absently.
"The Lawson Group's tech summit has you listed as their keynote speaker. And..." Isla hesitated, "Whitaker Holdings has sent a formal collaboration proposal for your quantum chip."
My eyes snapped away from the window. "From Rowan Whitaker personally?"
"Yes. Apparently, he's quite insistent on meeting with you."
A cold smile curved my lips as Los Angeles came into view below. Five years of waiting, planning, and preparing—all for this moment.
"Perfect timing," I murmured. The wheels touched down on American soil, and I returned home to collect my debts.
