Chapter 4 - The Paper Trail of Greed
By 2:00 PM, the rain had begun to fall over the estate, drumming a rhythmic, somber beat against the tall glass windows of the study.
Downstairs in the drawing room, Nora sat on a velvet sofa, sipping a glass of iced water. She was trying desperately to maintain her composure, though two burly security officers stood like statues by the oak doors.
When the study door opened and Ethan walked down the grand staircase alone, Nora immediately sprang to her feet, putting on her best wounded expression.
“Ethan!” she cried out, taking a cautious step toward him. “Please tell me you’ve come to your senses! You can’t keep me locked in here like a prisoner! I am your wife!”
Ethan walked past her without looking at her face, seating himself behind the mahogany desk in the center of the room. He pointed to the leather chair opposite him.
“Sit down, Nora,” he commanded.
Nora swallowed hard, smoothing her silk skirt, and sat down on the very edge of the chair. “Ethan, I know you were shaken by what happened with the tea, but you have to understand—Lily is confused. She’s too young to know what she saw. I promise you, I would die before hurting you.”
Ethan leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his knee.
“Did you know, Nora,” Ethan began smoothly, “that when Clara died two years ago, she left behind a private journal?”
Nora’s posture stiffened slightly. “Clara? What does your dead wife have to do with this?”
“Clara was very sick during her final months,” Ethan continued, his voice calm and conversational. “Dr. Julian Mercer was her primary attending physician. He was the one who managed her pain medication, her clinical trials, and her daily infusions.”
Nora’s left eyelid twitched faintly. “He... he was a good doctor.”
“He was an expensive doctor,” Ethan corrected. “Three months before Clara passed, she wrote in her diary that she noticed Dr. Mercer spending an unusual amount of time talking to her personal assistant in the hallway.”
Ethan pulled a glossy photograph from a manila folder on his desk and slid it across the table.
The photograph showed a younger Nora, five years ago, standing outside a high-end restaurant in Manhattan, her arm wrapped intimately around the waist of Dr. Julian Mercer.
Nora gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“You weren't just Clara’s administrative assistant, were you, Nora?” Ethan asked, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto hers like a vice. “You were Mercer’s mistress. He placed you in my wife’s inner circle six years ago.”
“That... that photo is a lie!” Nora sputtered, her face flushing crimson. “We were just colleagues! We were discussing Clara’s medical care!”
“On a Saturday night at midnight outside a boutique hotel in Soho?” Ethan smiled bitterly. “Don't insult my intelligence, Nora.”
Ethan opened another document from the folder.
“When Clara died, I was drowning in grief. I couldn't function. And suddenly, there you were. Cooking my meals. Organizing my schedule. Playing with my newborn baby. Making yourself indispensable until I was stupid enough to put a ring on your finger.”
Nora gripped the armrests of her chair, her nails digging deep into the leather. The victim disguise was crumbling fast, revealing the cold, mercenary woman underneath.
“What do you want, Ethan?” she asked, her voice dropping all its sweet warmth, becoming flat and callous. “If you know so much, why haven't you called the cops?”
“Because I wanted to see how deep the hole went,” Ethan replied coldly. “I had Marcus check Mercer’s research firm two hours ago. It turns out, his clinical trials failed last year. He lost thirty million dollars of cartel money in an illegal off-shore hedge fund. He owes people who don't take excuses.”
Ethan tapped his finger against the desk.
“He needed twenty million dollars by Friday to keep his knees from being broken. And you promised him you’d deliver my estate by signing the death certificate today.”
Nora stared at him, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Then, shockingly, she let out a low, mocking laugh.
“You think you’re so smart, don't you, Ethan?” Nora sneered, crossing her legs and leaning back. “So what if it’s true? You have no proof! A spilled cup of tea on a marble floor? A two-year-old child’s word? Any lawyer worth ten dollars an hour will have that dismissed in five minutes!”
She leaned forward, her eyes flashing with pure malice.
“You can’t prove I put anything in that cup. The tea is wiped up by now, isn't it? And even if you fire me, even if you divorce me, under prenuptial law, I walk away with twenty percent of your liquid assets just for being married to you for eleven months!”
Ethan looked at her with a quiet, terrifying pity.
“You forgot one thing, Nora,” Ethan whispered.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“The dining room chandeliers,” Ethan said gently. “My late wife was paranoid about home security after Lily was born. Three years ago, I installed 4K high-definition pinhole security cameras inside every crystal chandelier in the main house.”
Ethan turned his computer monitor toward her.
On the screen, in crystal-clear 4K resolution, was a video recording from 8:15 AM that morning.
It clearly showed Nora standing at the kitchen counter. It showed her pulling a small silver vial from her bra, unscrewing the cap, and pouring ten drops of clear liquid into Ethan’s teacup. It showed her stirring it with a gold spoon. And then, it showed her grabbing little Lily by her hair, yank her backward, and scream at her when the child tried to protect her father.
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Nora’s jaw dropped. The air left her lungs in a hollow, pathetic gasp.
“It’s all recorded, Nora,” Ethan said, his voice echoing in the quiet room. “The audio, the video, the chemical drop, and the assault on my minor daughter.”
