Chapter 2 The Access He Gave Them
By Monday morning, the penthouse felt less like a sanctuary and more like a stage where Joan was being steadily pushed to the wings.
Joan sat at the glass desk in the private office adjoining the master suite, scanning the revised Loft Haven launch timeline.
The precision she relied on to manage a multibillion-dollar brand was beginning to fail her.
Down the hall, Macey’s bright laughter blended with the low murmur of Reiner’s voice.
A knock sounded before Annabelle stepped inside, holding an iPad in a sleek leather case. She wore a sharp cream blazer that looked suspiciously like one Joan had bought in Paris two seasons ago.
"Joan, do you have ten minutes?" Annabelle asked, her tone smooth, professional, and disarmingly gentle. "I’ve been looking over the press and influencer strategy for the Loft Haven opening. Honestly, the traditional PR firm you’re using is a little dated.
I put together a deck outlining a launch campaign targeting digital-native luxury creators.
It could double the initial engagement."
Joan didn't move to take the tablet. She looked up, her expression cool and impassive.
"We have a dedicated marketing department, Annabelle. Loft International’s launch strategy was finalized six months ago, approved by the board, and is being executed by professionals.
I don't need help with the brand identity. "
Annabelle did not flinch. She tipped her head with practiced pity. "I’m just trying to lighten your load, Joan. Everyone can see how exhausted you are. Reiner mentioned last night that you’ve been overwhelmed—"
"What Reiner and I discuss is private," Joan said, lowering her voice. "And your presence here is a temporary courtesy, not a corporate consulting role."
"I thought you might say that," Annabelle murmured.
Twenty minutes later, Joan walked into the executive suite at Loft International’s Midtown headquarters.
Before she could reach her own glass-walled office, she saw Reiner standing near the central conference table, talking animatedly with the head of public relations.
Annabelle was beside him, leaning over an open laptop, pointing out a series of metrics.
Reiner looked up, smiling as Joan approached.
"Joan, good timing. Annabelle was just showing me her breakdown of the digital launch numbers. She’s right—our primary demographic leans much younger for private-island retreats than our conventional European hotels.
She understands online culture far better than our existing agency. "
A warning beat struck beneath Joan’s ribs. She kept her tone controlled. "Annabelle isn’t an employee of Loft International, Reiner. She has neither security clearance nor brand authority."
"She’s acting as an informal adviser, Joan," Reiner said smoothly, stepping closer and lowering his voice so the staff would not hear. "I gave her guest access to the marketing drive and launch calendar, nothing more. She’s offering free expertise during a high-stress launch. Why resist extra help when you’re already stretched to your limit? "
"Because I didn't authorize it," Joan whispered, looking directly into his gray eyes. "And I am the Chief Creative Officer."
"And I am the Chief Executive," Reiner replied, though his tone remained affectionate, almost condescending. "I’ve granted her temporary guest launch access to the marketing drive so she can assist. Don't turn a helpful gesture into a turf war, sweetheart."
Joan turned on her heel and walked straight to her office. She sat at her desk, picked up her phone, and dialed internal IT directly.
"Marcus," Joan said the moment the chief information security officer answered. "I need you to immediately revoke the guest credentials issued to Annabelle Bellamy. Restrict her access from all internal Loft Haven marketing folders."
There was a long, uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line.
"Mrs. Loft... I can't do that," Marcus said carefully. "Mr. Loft personally signed an executive override order for those credentials ten minutes ago. His chief executive authority supersedes your access restriction as Chief Creative Officer."
Joan closed her eyes, the silence in her office heavy and suffocating. "I see. Thank you, Marcus."
She hung up, her fingers trembling slightly against the polished wood of her desk.
Reiner had never overridden her in front of staff.
Never. In twelve years of building this company together, they had always maintained a unified front.
Now, he was giving her sister the key to her work with a casual wave of his hand.
By 7:00 p.m., Joan returned to the penthouse determined to reset. Three days earlier, Reiner had invited her to a private dinner at Le Bernardin—a quiet night for the two of them to speak about the miscarriage, the grief they had buried, and whether they could find their way back to one another.
She changed into a sleek black silk dress, applied a touch of lipstick, and waited in the living room.
7:30 PM passed. Then 8:00 PM.
By 8:30 PM, the penthouse elevator chimed, and Reiner stepped out, his tie loosened, looking exhausted and visibly annoyed.
"Reiner?" Joan stood up, frowning. "Where have you been? Our reservation was for eight."
Reiner paused, staring at her dressed-up appearance with a mix of confusion and frustration. "What are you talking about, Joan? I waited at the restaurant for forty-five minutes."
Joan blinked. "What? You weren't there—I’ve been sitting here waiting for you!"
Annabelle stepped out from the kitchen holding a glass of sparkling water, her face arranged in concern.
"Oh... Joan, didn't you get my text? Reiner messaged me around six asking if you were ready, and when I went to your home office, you said you were far too tired to talk about the...
well, about the baby tonight. You told me to say you were canceling dinner. "
"I never said that." Joan’s voice cracked through the quiet penthouse like a whip. She spun on her sister. "I never spoke to you at six o'clock, Annabelle. I was on a conference call with our Sydney team."
"Joan, please don't yell at her," Reiner said, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he walked into the room. "Annabelle sent me a message saying you were overwhelmed and wanted to stay home. I spent almost an hour sitting at a table alone, thinking you were pulling away from me again."
"I didn’t decline." Joan pulled out her phone and opened her calendar and messages. "Look—there’s no text. I never received a message from you, Reiner."
Annabelle looked down, biting her lip apologetically.
"It must have been a technical mistake... maybe the penthouse Wi-Fi dropped the message, or I misunderstood when I knocked on your door earlier. I’m so sorry, Reiner...
I was just trying to spare you both an uncomfortable night if Joan wasn't emotionally up for it. "
"It’s fine, Annabelle," Reiner said with a heavy sigh, looking at Joan not with anger, but with a lingering, disappointed pity. "It was a technical mistake. Or miscommunication. It happens when everyone is stressed."
"It wasn't a technical mistake, Reiner! She lied." Joan insisted, stepping closer to him, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Can't you see what’s happening?"
"What I see," Reiner said, his voice dangerously even, "is my wife turning a missed dinner into an interrogation. I’m tired, Joan. I’m going to bed."
He walked down the corridor toward the master suite, leaving Joan standing alone in the center of the room. Annabelle gave Joan one last, unreadable look before silently retreating to the guest wing.
The next morning, Joan woke up early, before the sun had fully cleared the skyline. The penthouse was freezing. She wrapped a sweater around herself and walked down toward the private home gym at the far end of the East Wing.
As she approached the glass door, she heard the rhythmic thud of a treadmill and light, breathy laughter.
Through the glass, she saw Reiner lifting weights. Beside him, wearing a tiny sports bra and leggings, was Macey.
Macey stood beside Reiner’s weight bench and handed him a towel. When he took it, she kept hold of one corner, then used her thumb to wipe a bead of sweat from his collarbone. Her face hovered inches from his.
"You work too hard, Reiner," Macey purred, her laugh light and teasing. "Honestly, Joan is so focused on her designs she forgets how lucky she is to come home to a man like you."
Reiner didn't pull away. He let out a low laugh, taking the towel. "Joan has a lot on her plate, Macey."
"Still," Macey murmured, touching his shoulder casually, brushing her fingers over his muscle. "A man needs to feel appreciated."
Joan pushed the door open. The sharp hiss of the sliding glass made both of them turn.
Macey didn't blush or look startled. She simply offered Joan a bright, dazzling smile. "Good morning, sleeping beauty. I was just keeping Reiner company for his morning set."
"Macey," Joan said, her voice dropping into a register so cold it surprised even herself. "Go to your room."
Macey pouted slightly, looking at Reiner as if waiting for him to defend her. When Reiner remained quiet, she sighed, patted Reiner’s arm affectionately, and glided past Joan out of the gym.
Once the door closed, Joan turned to Reiner. "She’s touching you. She’s flirting with you in our home, Reiner."
"She’s just being affectionate, Joan," Reiner said, picking up his water bottle, refusing to meet her gaze directly. "That’s how your sisters are. You’re reading too much into every single interaction."
"I am not reading into it." Joan walked back toward the master bedroom, her patience snapped. "They are invading our life, Reiner. They are intercepting messages, taking over company access, and standing in our home acting like—"
She stopped abruptly in the master bathroom.
On the vanity, Joan’s private medicine cabinet door was slightly ajar.
Joan walked over and pulled open the mirror cabinet. Inside was the small amber prescription bottle of anti-anxiety and sleep medication her doctor had given her after the miscarriage—a low-dose sedative she rarely used, but kept for nights when the grief physically kept her awake.
The bottle was missing.
Joan marched straight down the hall to Macey’s guest room and pushed the door open without knocking.
Macey was sitting on the edge of the bed, unboxing a pair of designer heels. On the nightstand right beside her sat Joan’s prescription bottle.
Joan walked in, grabbed the bottle, and checked the label. Half the tablets were gone.
Macey claimed she had taken only two, but far more than two tablets were missing. Joan stared at the empty space in the bottle, certain her sister had hidden the rest.
"What is this?" Joan demanded, holding the bottle up. "You stole my prescription?"
Macey blinked, her brown eyes instantly welling with tears.
"Joan! I—I had a panic attack two nights ago. Everything with the business collapsing... I couldn’t breathe.
I found them in the cabinet, and I took a couple.
I didn’t think you’d mind. I didn’t even know what they were really for. I just needed to sleep."
"They are my prescription, Macey. You don't go through my private medicine cabinet and take controlled substances." Joan turned toward the doorway as Reiner walked in, having heard the raised voices.
"Reiner, look at this," Joan said, holding up the half-empty bottle. "She took my post-miscarriage medication out of our private bathroom. They need to leave. Today. I want them out of this penthouse before the end of the day."
Reiner looked from the bottle to Macey, who had buried her face in her hands.
"Joan," Reiner said, stepping into the room and placing a hand gently on Joan’s arm. "She had a panic attack. Yes, she shouldn't have taken your medicine without asking, but throwing your sisters out on the street during an active financial crisis over a couple of sleep aids? That’s cruel."
Joan looked at her husband, a profound, terrifying sensation of vertigo washing over her. "Cruel? Reiner, she stole from our private bathroom. They are systematically invading every corner of our life."
"They are staying, Joan," Reiner said, his voice taking on that unyielding executive tone he used in boardroom negotiations. "They have nowhere else to go right now. You are letting your stress and grief make you cold. We are family. We support them through a crisis."
Joan stood paralyzed as Reiner walked over to Macey, sitting on the edge of the bed to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It’s okay, Macey. Just ask next time, alright?"
Macey nodded tearfully, looking up at Reiner with wide, worshipful eyes. "Thank you, Reiner... you’re so good to us."
Joan felt hollow and isolated.
She walked back to her private office, her heart pounding in her ears. She needed to check her files—she needed to pull up her personal medical records to send to her doctor for a refill request.
She opened the fireproof safe hidden in her office closet where she kept her most personal documents: passports, property deeds, and her hospital discharge papers from three months ago.
Joan reached into the folder, turning over the papers.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The folder was there. Her birth certificate was there.
The black executive security key she used to authorize high-value corporate transactions also appeared to be in its usual slot. Joan touched it without removing it, unaware that Annabelle had replaced the real key with an identical inactive duplicate.
But her original hospital discharge paperwork—the official medical documents detailing the emergency care and clinical diagnosis of her miscarriage—was gone.