Chapter 4
Jason was no longer on Skid Row.
That was the first thing we learned.
The outreach organization that had documented his presence there confirmed he had accepted temporary housing assistance approximately seven weeks earlier.
Three days later, he disappeared.
No forwarding address.
No shelter registration.
No credit cards.
No phone in his name.
No medical appointments.
No public benefits.
Nothing.
A man who had once been incapable of ordering lunch without broadcasting it on social media had somehow learned how to vanish.
That fact bothered me.
People rarely acquired new skills without teachers.
“Somebody helped him,” I said.
Paul stood across from my desk, looking through a thick investigative report.
“That is James’s conclusion too.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
Matthew was sitting on the sofa by the windows, studying a different set of documents.
It was nearly eleven at night, and the three of us had converted my office into a temporary command center.
My staff had gone home hours ago.
Sterling Tower was nearly silent.
I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes.
“What about Rachel?”
Paul closed the folder.
“Her apartment is empty.”
“Vehicle?”
“Left at LAX.”
“Flight?”
“None under her name.”
“Passport?”
“No international departure record.”
Matthew looked up.
“She used another identity.”
“Or somebody drove her.”
I stood and walked toward the coffee machine.
Paul watched me.
“You should go home.”
“This is my office.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“Sophia.”
“Paul, somebody accessed a family structure worth billions, and two people connected to my ex-husband have disappeared.”
I pressed the coffee button.
“I’m not sleeping.”
“You cannot operate indefinitely on caffeine and rage.”
“I’ve done worse.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
Matthew spoke without looking up.
“She’ll leave when she decides there’s nothing useful left to do.”
Paul stared at him.
“You’re enabling her.”
“I’m respecting her.”
“Those are occasionally the same mistake.”
I turned around.
“Are you two finished discussing me as though I’m decorative furniture?”
Paul sighed.
“Fine.”
My phone rang.
Attorney James.
I answered immediately.
“What did you find?”
“A connection.”
Paul and Matthew both became still.
“Between whom?”
“Jason and Rachel.”
I put the call on speaker.
James continued.
“Four months before your divorce filing, Rachel rented a private mailbox in Santa Monica. Security footage shows Jason collecting envelopes from that location on at least six occasions.”
My stomach dropped.
“So they knew each other.”
“Yes.”
“Before everything collapsed.”
“Yes.”
Matthew stood.
“What was in the envelopes?”
“We don’t know. But one payment record survived. Rachel purchased a document-scanning service near Century City.”
“What documents?”
“The shop does not retain copies, but the order receipt lists twelve hundred eighty-seven pages.”
Paul muttered something under his breath.
I sat back down.
“Rachel worked in compliance. Lily worked for our subsidiary. Jason lived in my house.”
I looked at my brother.
“This wasn’t random.”
“No.”
“He was building a file.”
Matthew came closer.
“About what?”
I already knew.
“Me.”
Nobody responded.
I remembered all the times Jason had wandered into my study under the pretense of bringing coffee.
The questions about my grandfather.
The sudden interest in my work calendar.
The complaints that I kept certain family matters private.
I had interpreted them as insecurity.
What if some of it had been research?
“I need access to our home security archives,” I said.
Paul frowned.
“The house you shared with him?”
“Yes.”
“You sold it.”
“Sterling security retained the cloud backups.”
“For how long?”
“Five years.”
Paul pulled out his phone.
Thirty minutes later, Elena joined us remotely.
By midnight, hundreds of archived recordings from the house were indexed.
The first search produced nothing.
The second gave us twenty-four clips of Jason entering my study when I was absent.
Most were mundane.
He searched drawers.
Photographed paperwork.
Opened filing cabinets.
Once, he removed a folder, scanned pages with his phone, then replaced it.
I watched in silence.
The humiliation was different this time.
Infidelity was intimate betrayal.
This was predation.
He had lived beside me while systematically inventorying my life.
Then Elena found the clip that changed everything.
It was dated eight months before the divorce.
Jason entered the study at two-sixteen in the morning.
He carried my grandfather’s old landscape painting.
The same painting he later stole and sold.
Instead of placing it against the wall, he turned it around.
Behind the canvas was a sealed envelope.
Paul leaned closer to the screen.
“What the hell?”
Jason opened it.
Inside were handwritten papers.
He photographed every page.
Then he returned the envelope behind the painting.
My throat tightened.
“I didn’t know that was there.”
Paul stared at me.
“Neither did I.”
Matthew’s gaze remained fixed on the screen.
“What was in it?”
I turned to James.
“Who bought the painting?”
“Private intermediary.”
“Find the current owner.”
“We tried.”
“Try harder.”
James paused.
“There is something else.”
I hated that sentence.
“What?”
“The intermediary company that purchased the painting was incorporated in Nevada.”
“So?”
“Its registered manager is a shell entity.”
“Owned by?”
“Another corporation.”
“James.”
He exhaled.
“Ultimately connected to Vance Industries.”
The room froze.
Nobody moved.
I slowly turned toward Matthew.
His expression had gone completely still.
Paul’s posture changed instantly.
“Explain.”
Matthew looked at James.
“Which entity?”
“North Coast Preservation Holdings.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Paul stepped toward him.
“Your company owns it.”
“My company owns thousands of special-purpose entities.”
“How convenient.”
“Paul.”
My voice stopped him.
I looked at Matthew.
“Did you buy the painting?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Did anyone acting on your instructions buy it?”
“No.”
“Did you know Vance Industries owned the purchasing entity?”
“No.”
Paul laughed once, without humor.
“Of course not.”
Matthew ignored him.
“Sophia, give me twenty minutes.”
“For what?”
“To find out.”
He walked toward the door.
Paul moved into his path.
“No.”
Matthew stopped.
“What?”
“You don’t walk out of a room after we discover your company is connected to stolen Sterling property.”
Matthew’s voice cooled.
“Move.”
“Paul.”
My brother turned.
“Let him investigate.”
“Sophia—”
“I said let him.”
Paul’s jaw flexed.
He stepped aside.
Matthew looked at me.
“I’ll call you.”
“No.”
He paused.
“I’m coming.”
Paul objected immediately.
“Absolutely not.”
I picked up my jacket.
“If Matthew is involved, I want to see him discover how much I know.”
Matthew’s eyes flashed with something between irritation and admiration.
“And if I’m not?”
“Then you should want me there.”
He nodded.
“Fair enough.”
Vance Industries occupied forty-two floors of a glass tower in Century City.
At twelve-forty-five in the morning, the executive level was almost entirely empty.
Matthew’s chief financial officer arrived ten minutes after us looking pale and confused.
His name was Daniel Reeves.
Fifty-one.
Married.
Twenty years at Vance Industries.
Matthew did not waste time.
“North Coast Preservation Holdings.”
Daniel blinked.
“What about it?”
“Who controls it?”
“Asset management.”
“Who specifically?”
“I’d have to check.”
“Check.”
Daniel opened a secured terminal.
His fingers moved quickly.
Then stopped.
His face changed.
Matthew noticed.
“What?”
Daniel swallowed.
“That’s strange.”
“What?”
“The entity was administratively reassigned nine months ago.”
“To whom?”
Daniel hesitated.
Matthew’s voice dropped.
“Daniel.”
“A special acquisitions director.”
“Name.”
Daniel looked at me.
Then back at Matthew.
“Ethan Vance.”
Matthew did not move.
But something in his face disappeared.
I knew the name.
Everyone in California business knew it.
Ethan Vance.
Matthew’s younger half-brother.
A man who had supposedly left Vance Industries two years earlier after a public dispute over control of the company.
“Your brother,” I said quietly.
Matthew stared at the screen.
“Yes.”
Paul, who had followed us despite my objections, folded his arms.
“I thought Ethan had no corporate authority.”
“He shouldn’t.”
Daniel was typing frantically.
“His credentials were never fully deactivated.”
Matthew turned slowly.
“What?”
Daniel’s complexion drained.
“I signed the termination order.”
“Then why does he still have access?”
“I don’t know.”
Matthew stepped closer.
“Find out.”
Daniel began calling IT.
I walked toward the enormous windows.
The city stretched beneath us.
Jason.
Rachel.
Lily.
The painting.
Ethan Vance.
Separate threads were beginning to knot together.
Matthew approached me.
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
He looked surprised.
“You do?”
“You reacted before you had time to perform.”
His mouth tightened.
“That is either flattering or terrifying.”
“Both.”
“What do you know about Ethan?”
I asked.
Matthew looked away.
“He spent most of his life believing our father cheated him.”
“Did he?”
“Depends who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
Matthew leaned against the window.
“Our father founded Vance Industries before Ethan was born. When he died, I received controlling voting rights.”
“And Ethan?”
“Twenty-two percent ownership with restrictions.”
“Why restrictions?”
“Because he had repeatedly leveraged company assets for personal deals.”
“Legal?”
“Barely.”
“Your relationship?”
“Bad.”
“How bad?”
“He tried to remove me as CEO.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
The timeline caught my attention.
“When I married Jason.”
Matthew met my gaze.
“Yes.”
“Coincidence?”
“I don’t know.”
Daniel approached us.
His hands were trembling.
“We found something.”
Matthew turned.
“What?”
“Ethan’s credentials were used six months ago to create a hidden acquisition account.”
He placed a document on the screen.
“North Coast Preservation bought eleven assets.”
The painting was only one.
There were antique documents.
Two properties.
A collection of archived corporate records.
And one item listed merely as PRIVATE LETTERS — STERLING ESTATE.
I stared at the words.
“What letters?”
Daniel opened the purchase record.
The seller was anonymous.
The price was two million dollars.
The payment authorization had been approved by Ethan.
Matthew swore quietly.
Paul stepped closer.
“Why would your brother spend two million dollars on Sterling family letters?”
Nobody answered.
Then I saw the date.
The purchase had occurred ten days before Jason stole the painting.
I felt the room tilt.
“He knew what he was looking for before Jason found the envelope.”
Matthew looked at me.
Which meant Jason had not created this plan.
He had been recruited into it.
My phone rang.
Attorney James again.
His voice was different this time.
Urgent.
“Sophia, security just flagged activity at the Legacy Reserve.”
My heart slammed once.
“What kind of activity?”
“Someone submitted an ownership challenge.”
Paul’s face went pale.
“That’s impossible.”
James continued.
“The filing contains copies of documents allegedly signed by your grandfather.”
My eyes moved toward the screen containing the list of purchased family letters.
“What do they claim?”
“That the Sterling Legacy Reserve was never intended to pass exclusively through your family line.”
The room went dead silent.
“Who filed it?”
James gave me the answer.
“Ethan Vance.”
I looked at Matthew.
He looked as shocked as I felt.
May you like
And suddenly the relationship between our families was no longer business.
It was war.
