Dominic remained still.
For the first time since she had met him, he looked uncertain.
"I am sorry," he said quietly.
Rebecca stared at him.
The man who had stopped Gregory with a single hand. The man whose name could silence boardrooms and bring entire corporations to their knees.
He was apologizing.
Not because he had been forced to.
Because he understood that the truth could destroy her.
She sank back onto the sofa.
"Who killed him?"
Dominic's expression hardened again.
"That is what we are going to find out."
Marcus stepped forward.
"Sir, the forensic team has completed the preliminary examination of the documents. There is something you should see."
He placed the encrypted tablet on the marble table.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
It showed a page from one of the ledgers Rebecca had carried out of Gregory's penthouse. The paper was yellowed, its edges darkened as if it had been exposed to heat. Several columns of numbers were written in Thomas Sterling's familiar handwriting.
Rebecca leaned closer.
At the bottom of the page was a name.
Not Gregory Vance.
Not Thomas Sterling.
A name she had never expected to see.
"Who is Adrian Cross?" she whispered.
Dominic's face changed.
The transformation was subtle, but Rebecca noticed it immediately. The muscles around his eyes tightened. His fingers curled against the edge of the table.
Marcus looked at him.
"That is the problem, sir."
Dominic stared at the screen.
"Adrian Cross has been dead for twelve years."
Rebecca felt the room tilt.
"Then why is his name in my father's ledger?"
Dominic looked at her.
"Because someone has been using the identity of a dead man to move money through the Sterling and Vance accounts."
He paused.
"And because Adrian Cross was the man who taught Gregory's father how to destroy people without ever touching them."
Chapter 6: The Woman in the Locked Room
The penthouse had been designed to make its occupants feel untouchable.
Thick reinforced glass. Private elevators. Security systems that monitored every corridor. An entire floor of the building was accessible only through Dominic's biometric authorization.
Yet Rebecca could not sleep.
She stood in the guest bedroom, staring at the reflection of her face in the dark window.
The bruises on her wrist were beginning to fade. Her eyes remained swollen from crying. The borrowed clothes Dominic's staff had provided were soft and immaculate, but she felt as though she were wearing a disguise.
A woman who belonged in this penthouse would not have spent eighteen months apologizing for existing.
A woman who belonged here would not have been terrified of her own husband's footsteps.
Rebecca turned away from the window.
On the bedside table lay the handkerchief Dominic had given her.
She had washed her face, but she had not returned it.
There was something about the simple piece of linen that unsettled her. It was a reminder that someone had seen her at her weakest and had not used that weakness against her.
She picked it up.
A knock sounded at the door.
Rebecca froze.
"Rebecca?"
Dominic's voice.
She opened the door.
He stood in the corridor wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tie was gone. Without the immaculate suit, he looked less like the owner of an empire and more like a man who had spent too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.
"I thought you might want something to eat," he said.
"I'm not hungry."
"I thought you might say that."
He held out a small tray.
A bowl of soup. A slice of bread. A cup of tea.
Rebecca stared at it.
"Do you always bring food to women who run into your arms?"
"No."
"How many have there been?"
"None."
The answer came so quickly that she almost smiled.
Dominic noticed.
"Was that a smile?"
"No."
"Good. I was concerned that my reputation might be deteriorating."
She took the tray.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Rebecca asked, "Why are you still awake?"
Dominic glanced toward the windows at the end of the corridor.
"Because someone tried to access the penthouse security network forty minutes ago."
Her fingers tightened around the tray.
"Gregory?"
"We don't know yet."
"Can he reach me here?"
"Not while I am alive."
The words were delivered without drama.
That made them more frightening.
Rebecca looked up at him.
"Don't say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Like your life is something you can spend without thinking."
Dominic's expression softened.
"I am thinking."
"About what?"
He hesitated.
"About the fact that you are standing in a hallway at three in the morning, afraid of a man who should never have been allowed to hurt you."
Rebecca looked away.
"I am not afraid of him anymore."
Dominic said nothing.
She hated that he could see through her.
"I am afraid of what I will become if I let him destroy everything," she whispered.
Dominic stepped closer.
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"No," he admitted. "But I know that you are not the woman Gregory believes you to be."
Rebecca looked at him.
"And what woman does he believe I am?"
"A possession."
The word landed between them.
Dominic's voice dropped.
"He believes that because he has spent his entire life confusing power with ownership. He believes that if he can control your money, your name, and your movements, he can control your soul."
Rebecca's eyes filled with tears.
"And you?"
Dominic's gaze held hers.
"I believe that you are the only person who can decide what happens to your soul."
For a moment, the corridor seemed to disappear.
Rebecca could hear only the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
Then she stepped back.
"Thank you for the food."
Dominic nodded.
"Good night, Rebecca."
He turned to leave.
"Dominic?"
He stopped.
"Will you tell me about Adrian Cross tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"And about my father?"
"Everything I can prove."
She watched him walk away.
For the first time in eighteen months, she closed a door without feeling that she was locking herself inside a prison.
The next morning, Rebecca entered Dominic's private study.
Marcus was already there, surrounded by documents and digital displays. Dominic stood near the window, reading a report.
He looked up when she entered.
"You slept."
"Three hours."
"An improvement."
Rebecca ignored the remark.
"Tell me about Adrian Cross."
Dominic gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.
"Adrian Cross was a financial architect. He specialized in creating structures that allowed wealthy families to hide assets, manipulate ownership, and destroy competitors through legal means."
"Was he a lawyer?"
"Not exactly. He was a mathematician who understood how money moved through the world better than most bankers."
Dominic placed a photograph on the desk.
A man in his early fifties stood beside a black limousine. He had silver hair, a narrow face, and a smile that seemed almost pleasant.
Rebecca studied the image.
"He doesn't look dangerous."