Chapter 3 - The Mask of Grief
The grand ballroom of the Fairchild Estate gleamed under crystal chandeliers, filled with the elite of the city—politicians, CEOs, venture capitalists, and socialites draped in diamonds. In the center of it all stood Brendan Fairchild and Samantha Hayes, looking every bit the golden power couple. Samantha wore a breathtaking emerald-green gown that commanded every eye in the room, her laughter ringing out brightly as she accepted compliments on her recent appointment to the Fairchild Foundation’s board of directors.
And there I was, standing three steps behind them in a simple black dress, clutching a glass of sparkling water I had no intention of drinking.
To the room, I was simply Brendan’s grieving, fragile wife—a woman still recovering from the tragic loss of her chronically ill child, brought out tonight by her generous husband to heal.
“Nora, darling, aren't you eating anything?” Samantha asked, gliding over with a predatory sweetness in her smile. Her eyes scanned my plain black dress with undisguised superiority. “You look a bit pale. But I suppose after everything... well, one must learn to move forward.”
Brendan joined her, slipping a familiar arm around Samantha’s waist before catching himself and shifting his hand to rest lightly on the small of my back. It was a microscopic slip, but my actuarial mind caught it instantly.
“Samantha is right, Nora,” Brendan said, his tone dripping with condescension disguised as concern. “You’ve isolated yourself too much. Look around—everyone is here to support us. You need to let go of the gloom.”
I raised my eyes to meet Brendan’s, letting a tear pool just at the brim—mastered through years of suppressing real agony.
“It’s hard, Brendan,” I murmured, my voice trembling just enough to satisfy him. “I keep thinking about the medical bills... how close we came... if only Ximena had approved that last medication...”
Brendan’s jaw tightened instantaneously, a flash of pure irritation crossing his face. He hated being reminded of Chloe’s final days in public.
“We’ve discussed this, Nora,” he hissed under his breath, leaning down so only I could hear. “Ximena follows company protocols. Stop dragging family tragedies into polite society. Go sit at table four and get some air.”
“Of course,” I whispered, lowering my head submissively.
I turned and walked away toward table four, but instead of sitting, I slipped through a side corridor toward the estate’s private executive study. The heavy mahogany door was unlocked—Brendan always was sloppy when he was drunk on his own success.
Inside the study sat his private terminal, connected directly to the Fairchild Group’s internal server. Using the master override keys Raymond had extracted from my father’s safe, I plugged a small flash drive into the USB port.
A progress bar materialized on the screen: Downloading Core Assets & Offshore Accounts... 42%... 89%... Complete.
Just as I pulled the drive free, the study door handle clicked. I slipped behind the heavy velvet drapes just as Brendan and Samantha slipped into the room, giggling softly.
“Oh, Brendan, your wife is such a drag,” Samantha whispered breathlessly as Brendan pressed her against the mahogany desk.
“Just bear with her a little longer, Sam,” Brendan murmured, kissing her neck. “Once the final merger with the Vanguard holdings goes through next month, I’ll buy out her remaining trust shares, file for a quiet divorce on the grounds of ‘irreconcilable mental strain,’ and you and I will own the entire empire outright.”
“You promise?” Samantha giggled.
May you like
“I swear it,” Brendan whispered.
I stood silently in the dark shadow of the drapes, my fingers curling tightly around the flash drive in my pocket. File for divorce? Own the empire? They had no idea that the foundation beneath their feet had already been undermined.
