Chapter Thirteen
Lauren
I log into my desktop at the office, not really knowing where to start.
Emails flood my inbox. Last-minute adjustments, risk assessments, projected yield reports. Numbers I know by heart. Numbers that keep me valuable on the corporate ladder.
As long as I do good work, I remain an asset here.
But even better, as long as I’m working here, I have access to all of my father’s financial records that might, one day, all jigsaw together and reveal what I’m secretly looking for. Each file, each transaction could be the missing piece I need.
But it’s not just about that. I actually love what I do.
All things aside, work keeps me sane, and I need it as a distraction now, more than ever, to prevent myself from spiraling into a not-so-pleasant state of mind.
The familiar rhythm of analysis and calculation usually centers me, grounds me in something I can control.
I need to forget that I’m pregnant, at least for a while. Switch off and clear my head. And what better way to do that than by finalizing financial reports? Numbers don’t lie, don’t complicate things, don’t leave me questioning every decision I’ve ever made.
God knows, I’ve been questioning myself a lot lately…
The door to my office opens, Melissa stepping in. She’s my assistant, not long out of college. We get along. The relationship remains professional, and I prefer to keep it that way. I’m here to do my job, not to make friends.
Melissa always dresses appropriately whenever she enters the office. Her outfit of choice this morning is a chic pencil skirt and a blouse. Her auburn hair is pulled back from her face in a smooth ponytail.
“Your father wants to see you,” she says.
I push away from the desktop. Not exactly how I wanted to start my morning, but I guess it was expected. Anxiety creeps into my stomach.
Or is that just a pregnancy symptom?
Ugh, I don’t even know anymore.
Melissa walks me over to my father’s office like I don’t already know the way, and knocks on his door.
“Enter.”
She holds open the door for me and leaves me to it.
The place is as immaculate as ever. Then again, that’s the thing about my father.
He’s so particular about everything. Pens must be all the same brand—Parker—and placed neatly on his desk.
He doesn’t keep them in a holder because he thinks it looks messy.
Instead, he has them next to his desktop, each of them placed parallel.
Everything in his world has to be controlled, measured, perfect.
Even the binder folders on the shelves all sit upright, the labels all stuck on the bottom right corners.
His office always smells of antiseptic, probably because he sanitizes his hands at every given opportunity.
It’s cool too, the air conditioning always blowing and the windows closed.
I don’t even know how he has managed to live this long without ever breathing natural air.
“Take a seat, Lauren,” he says, briefly looking up from his desk, mid-writing. His tone is clipped, businesslike, as if I’m just another appointment on his calendar.
But I’m used to it now. I drop into a chair opposite his desk and await his commands.
“I need you to prepare the presentation for the upcoming investor meeting.” He clicks off the Parker pen and neatly places it aside. I try to catch a name on the document laid out in front of him, but he turns it over and tucks it away into one of the desk drawers.
“I already have.” At least, I’m pretty certain I have. I run through the list in my head—refined asset allocations, adjusted risk models, compiled research on each investor’s previous acquisition. Yep. The trick is to know what the client is looking for before they know themselves.
Father reclines in his ergonomic chair, nodding.
I narrow my eyes, suspecting this isn’t all.
He tilts his head, squinting. “Have you been feeling okay?”
I stiffen. “Why?” The question comes out sharper than intended, but his scrutiny always puts me on edge.
“I was informed you went to the doctor. Your regular primary care visit was only two months ago. Is there anything I should know about?”
I stiffen more. Somehow, I sense this isn’t fatherly concern for my health. He must know something is up. I know him too well.
Could he know about the pregnancy?
I’m twenty-seven years old now. Why is he still watching my every step? He has always been this way, always keeping an eye on me like a hawk. Always reminding me that he can. The invisible leash he keeps me on never seems to loosen, no matter how old I get or how capable I prove myself to be.
“It was just a stomach bug,” I bullshit. “I’m fine now.”
His eyes remain on me, watching. This is probably the longest he’s looked at me in years. Computer screens and boardroom meetings tend to take first priority over family members.
Danielle enters the office before he can say anything else, suddenly dispersing the tension.
She’s three years older than me, and has been my father's secretary since before I was hired. Her cold, blue eyes are always hidden behind slender Prada glasses, the frame the same, jet-black as the color of her hair. She always wears it down, and it’s always straight.
It’s no surprise that she’s wearing a silk blouse today. She wears them every day.
Despite being just down the corridor from each other, I don’t think Melissa and Danielle speak much. Danielle always has a sly look about her, like she has her own agenda, and I sense that Melissa prefers to stay out of the way.
“Mr. Watson, Mr. Aslanov is on the phone for you.”
Aslanov?
What the fuck?
I neutralize my features and try to act normal, but alarm bells ring in my ears, remembering the files I was trying to access the other day.
Aslanov as in ‘Access Denied’ Aslanov?
I flick my gaze back to Father and see him cast his eyes over to me, like he noticed something falter in my expression.
“Put him through to the boardroom,” says my father, rising from his chair to meet Danielle at the door. “I’ll see you there in a moment.” He sees Danielle out, and then exits the room himself.
But I don’t.
Alone in his room, I feel like a kid in a playground. There’s so much to do. I just need to decide where to look first. Pressed for time, I need to be strategic about this.
Think, Lauren.
I jump up, close the blinds and lock the door. Father never leaves his computer logged in, but lucky for me, I know his passwords. I dart behind his desk, wiggle the mouse, and revive the computer from sleep mode, rolling up my blouse sleeves to begin typing.
This is the perfect opportunity. Even the air from the AC feels less dry somehow.
This could be a big step towards victory.
I type as fast as my fingers can handle. Once access has been granted to the encrypted company server, I navigate over to the private investment folders. One particular folder stands out like a sore thumb. It’s one I haven’t seen before. Answers have to be in here, I’m sure of it.
This could be a very dangerous move, but I’ve never been afraid to take risks.
Except this might be the biggest risk I’m ever taking.
No.
Scratch that.
The biggest risk I took was sleeping with Nikolai Rogov and getting pregnant with his baby.
Shoving my worries to the back of my mind, I continue browsing the folders. If Father is spying on me, why can’t I spy on him?
Besides, I don’t trust him. The moment he showed up at Sophia and Timur’s Bratva-wedding, shaking hands with tattooed Russian mobsters, I knew he was up to something.
Suddenly, the memory of what Nikolai said to me the other night enters my mind.
“Timur was ordered to oversee a deal between your father and one of our allies. Little did we know, your father brought friends.”
And as much as it kills me to admit it, parts of me are starting to think Nikolai might have been telling me the truth about Timur.
Why the hell was my father at the crime scene where Mom died?
And who were those ‘buddies’ of his? Besides, who would want to kill my innocent mom unless they were given a reason?
The emphasis is on ‘reason’. What if Dad got involved in something shady that led to Mom’s death?
Shit.
I don’t know if I’m ready to hear the answer to that, but it’s too late to back out. I continue searching the folders, scanning text for names until I recognize one.
‘Ronan Aslanov.’
My stomach clenches.
Who the fuck is this Ronan Aslanov?
Conscious of time, I slip my USB from my blouse pocket and hastily plug it into the computer monitor, dragging the files across to make copies. I can read these in my own time. Right now, I need to get the hell out of here before I’m caught.
For all I know, this could be part of my father’s ploy. Maybe he’s testing me, waiting to see how far I’ll go.
I click, drag and drop, repeating the process until I have all the necessary files I need. Slowly, they begin to download onto the USB. Each second feels like an eternity.
Ten percent.
Fifteen.
My wrist in pain from the mouse, I stretch it out, peering around the monitor to check that nobody is lingering outside the door.
Twenty percent…
Thirty…
Fuck, come on!
It’s game over if I’m caught.
My pulse starts drumming in my throat.
Forty…
Fifty…
I don’t know what business Dad has with this Aslanov guy, but I’m going to find out. First, his name appears in my father’s private records. Then he’s calling my father on the phone. And for whatever reason, Dad feels he needs to deal with the call in the boardroom, without me listening.
Sixty percent…
Seventy…
The door thuds.
I jolt up, brought out of my daze. Peering past the monitor, I inspect the door. It rattles again.
Shit!
Someone’s obviously trying to get in.
Eighty percent completed…
Oh, come on!
The rattling stops and whoever’s out there starts knocking on the door.
I tense my shoulders. I’m going to be in so much shit if I’m caught. There’s not long left to go before the download has completed, but I’m clearly out of time.
There’s the faint jingling of keys outside.
I hold my breath.
Ninety…
Ninety-five…
The key turns in the lock.
One-hundred percent!
I yank the USB out of the computer and tuck it back into my blouse pocket faster than a lightning strike.
Then, I race over to the couch just as the door opens to reveal Danielle’s face.
I force my expression into something resembling calm, even though my heart is beating so hard I’m sure she can see it through my shirt.
I give her a smile, my arm draped around the back of the couch. Acting casual also involves untensing my shoulders, but I can’t. The adrenaline is still pumping through me.
“Miss Watson?”
I look up, feigning confusion. “Yes?”
“What are you doing here?” says Danielle, nudging the Prada glasses back onto the bridge of her nose.
“Oh, I was just reviewing some notes. Nothing much. Sorry. I didn’t realize the door was locked,” I say, deciding to remove my arm from the couch because I feel awkward.
Jesus, Lauren.
You’re a terrible liar.
Danielle surveys me, her pointed nose poking down at me like a bird’s beak. She doesn’t look convinced.
“I was just leaving, anyway.” I hop up and walk towards the door, passing her on the way with a smile.
She continues to stare at me, watching like a hawk.
I don’t know what her deal is. She’s a secretary, but she seems to be making herself my father’s personal spy.
‘It’s not worth it, hun,’ I feel like saying. ‘He doesn’t pay you nearly enough.’
I enter the hallway, my pulse still drumming thick in my throat.
It’s only back in my office that I let out a puff of air, finally able to relax my shoulders and return my breathing to normal.
I hope Danielle keeps her suspicions to herself and that I can make it through the afternoon without anyone noticing what I just did.
But the main thing is, I have what I need.
And tonight, I’m finding out what’s in that folder.
I just hope it doesn’t bring danger to me and my unborn child.