Chapter 20 Erik #2
“It was a bar downtown.” Anna pulls out her own phone, typing rapidly.
“I’m pretty sure it closed. There was some issue with the building.
..” She trails off, staring at her screen.
“Erik. The Brass Anchor closed six years. Fire code violations. It’s been demolished.
That was before you even bought the research. ”
The world tilts.
“That can’t be right. Alistair said the recording was from six months the court case”
Anna’s voice is flat. “Which means this recording was supposedly made years after the bar stopped existing.”
I stare at my phone. The audio file sits there innocently, a weapon I never thought to examine closely.
“It could be a different bar,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m grasping. “Maybe he got the name wrong.”
“Or maybe the recording is fake.”
The word lands like a stone.
Fake.
“Wallace wouldn’t—” I stop. Because would he? I’ve known Alistair Wallace for years, dealt with him professionally, considered him a competent if somewhat slick business partner.
Nolan accused him of fraud, of betrayal, of taking years of his work and selling it like it was never his.
I didn’t really think about it. I instructed the legal team to defend it because that’s what you do.
I pull up my email and start typing.
Sara—
Need the recording forensically analyzed.
Full authentication. Also: I want a complete investigation into Alistair Wallace.
All of his business dealings, not just the ones with us.
Every company he’s sold research to, every lawsuit, every settlement.
I want to know where his money comes from and where it goes.
I don’t want that man taking a shit without it being documented.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Sara’s response comes almost immediately. On it, boss.
Anna is watching me. “What are you going to do if it’s fake?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. If the recording is fake, then Alistair played me. And Nolan—
What must he think? He was already convinced I stole his research. Then I married him, got him through a heat, started to build something that felt real. And then I turned on him without warning, without explanation. Just coldness and an eviction notice.
He must hate me. He has every right to hate me.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
We sit in silence as the evening fades toward night. The river moves past us, dark and steady, indifferent to the chaos in my head.
My phone buzzes three hours later.
I’m in my penthouse by then, pacing the living room like an animal, unable to sit still. Anna left an hour ago after making me promise to call her as soon as I heard anything. The wait has been excruciating.
I’ve worn a path in the carpet. Somewhere out there is Nolan, possibly pregnant, and I have no idea where.
The worst scenarios keep playing in my head. What if he’s sick? What if the weight loss and the pallor were symptoms of something serious, something beyond simple withdrawal? What if he’s pregnant and alone and struggling, and I’m the reason?
My phone has been sitting on the coffee table like a bomb waiting to go off. Every time it doesn’t buzz, the silence feels like an accusation.
When the screen finally lights up, I lunge for it so fast I nearly knock over my untouched whiskey.
Sara’s name appears on the screen. I answer before the second ring.
“What did you find?”
“The recording is fake.” Her voice is professional. “The forensic analyst says it’s a splice job. Multiple audio sources cut together to form a coherent conversation. Probably pulled from different recordings of Nolan speaking, then assembled with Alistair’s responses.”
The floor seems to shift beneath my feet.
“You’re sure.”
“Positive. The analyst found at least three separate audio signatures. The background noise changes between segments—different ambient sounds, different acoustic profiles. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it sound authentic, but under professional analysis it falls apart.”
Three separate audio signatures. Which means Alistair had recordings of Nolan from multiple sources, spliced them together to create a confession that never happened.
“The bar,” I manage. “The Brass Anchor—”
“Erik, if this recording is fabricated, it throws everything else into question too. The original research acquisition, the settlement, all of it.”
I know. God, I know.
“Keep digging,” I say. “Everything on Alistair. I want to know exactly what we bought and where it really came from.”
“Already on it. I’ll have a preliminary report by tomorrow.”
I draw in a deep breath. “And the pregnancy?”
Sara’s answer is immediate. “I don’t know. I don’t have access to his medical records, but I can tell you that he quit his job a few days ago and he hasn’t been seen at the hospital since.”
“Find him.”
I end the call and stand there in my empty penthouse.
I was wrong.
The thought is almost too big to contain. I was wrong about the recording. I was probably wrong about the research. Which means I was wrong about Nolan.
And if he’s pregnant...
If he’s carrying my child and I’ve spent the last month treating him like a criminal, throwing him out of his home, cutting him off from everything.
I sink onto the sofa and bury my face in my hands.
What have I done?
The penthouse has never felt this empty.
All this space, all this expensive silence, and the only thing I can think about is a cramped cohabitation apartment.
The way he’d curl up on the sofa with his laptop, frowning at the screen.
The way he looked in the mornings, soft with sleep, before he remembered to put his armor back on.
I loved him.
The thought surfaces clear and undeniable, stripped of all the defenses I’ve been building against it.
I was falling in love with him, and instead of trusting that instinct, I let my own fear of being played override everything my gut was telling me.
And now he’s gone, and he might be carrying my child, and I don’t know how to fix any of it.
Somehow, I don’t think he will forgive me.