2. Edward
EDWARD
The screen is a white desert of data, and I’ve been scouring through it for hours. My eyes burn from not blinking, the blue light of the monitor etching the gridlines of the Excel sheet into my retinas.
The numbers are there. They look precise… balanced. Hardly a hair out of place.
But they are a lie.
I lean back, the leather of my executive chair creaking in the silence of my office. I’ve always known my brother, Graham, was a liability. He’s a spoiled "Richie Rich" archetype brought to life: a man-child who views the family empire as a personal piggy bank.
His appointment as CFO wasn’t an endorsement of his talent or know-how, but a biological fluke. He spooled out of our father’s balls at the right time, and Thaddeus, ever the sentimentalist, rewarded him with a title he couldn’t explain, let alone earn.
I blink and let out a sigh. I’ve combed through these figures five times, praying I’m wrong. I’m looking for a missed row, a stray column, a rounding error that would explain the hemorrhage of capital.
But there's none.
To a casual observer, or a distracted auditor, the sheet is immaculate. Third-party vendors? Paid and documented, with receipts. Overheads? Within margin. Accounts payable? Verified.
Then there’s Jordan they acted like employees, deferring to Graham with a submissiveness that felt... normal. Like actors looking up to a director.
I spent three nights digging into J they’re milking us for the equivalent of a small country's GDP.
There are only two logical conclusions: either Graham is the secret owner, or he’s getting a kickback so massive it qualifies as a second salary. He may be lazy, but he isn’t stupid. He’s just arrogant enough to think I’m not looking.
I reach into my desk drawer, pull out an encrypted USB stick, and slot it into the monitor. The file transfer bar crawls across the screen.
Copying.
I make a second backup to my private Google Drive.
I’ve done more than the board would ever ask of a CEO.
I’ve played the role of the diligent brother and the silent observer.
But the time for observation is over. Graham has two choices: he comes clean in private and lets me bury the bodies, or I involve the board and turn his life into a rigamarole of legal proceedings and public disgrace.
I pull the stick, pocket it, and stand up.
It's time to go a-reckoning.
The drive to Graham’s penthouse is a blur of city lights and simmering irritation.
As I slip out of the car, I look up at the towering glass spire.
Graham made such a goddamn fuss about this place.
You’d think our father was already in the ground and the estate settled, given the way Graham demanded the world when Thaddeus retired.
And our father, who never learned the word ‘no’ when it came to his youngest, obliged.
He swears he doesn't play favorites, but anyone with half a brain and the willingness to use it sees the favouritism.
Graham is the golden boy. Apparently, all he had to do to earn that status was kill our mother during childbirth.
I lean toward the driver’s side window. “Keep the car running. This should be quick.”
The doorman recognizes me, bowing slightly as he pulls the heavy glass doors open. I don’t acknowledge him. I head straight for the elevator and punch the button for the penthouse.
I study the lights illuminating each button as the carriage sped up the floors. When the doors slide open, I freeze.
Noelle is standing there.
She’s the reason Graham hasn’t already been fired for incompetence… the engine behind the show, while he’s merely the hood ornament.
Noelle is usually the picture of professional composure, but today, she looks like she’s been put through a thresher. Her eyes are teary, but there’s a hardness in her expression I’ve never seen before. She’s holding a suitcase, too.
We’ve barely spoken outside of boardrooms. I find her efficiency impressive and her choice in men appalling. In this moment, I have no words for her. I don’t know how to navigate a woman’s wreckage, let alone one who saw anything good in my brother.
I simply nod and step out of her way. She doesn’t say a word. She enters the elevator, the doors closing between us like a shutter.
I stand in the hallway for a beat, then move to the glass walls overlooking the street. A few minutes later, I see her emerge from the building. She walks toward the road with a gait of one having an out-of-body experience—detached. Noelle flags a taxi, gets in, and vanishes into the traffic.
I turn back toward the penthouse doors. As I push them open, the sound hits me before the visual.
Moans. Swearing.
That explains Noelle’s state.
I consider going through with my reason for coming. I could walk in, pour myself a finger of Graham’s over-priced scotch, and sit in the living room until he finishes his romp. I could watch the blood drain from his face when he sees me.
But the gears in my head are turning.
I just watched a woman with the keys to the kingdom—and a massive, freshly-minted vendetta—walk out that door.
Noelle knows where the bodies are buried because she’s the one who’s been digging the graves for him.
Maybe not knowingly. But that's to be determined.
For now, she is the Mr. Kaplan to his Reddington.
And if I want to dismantle Graham, I need the one person who knows his every secret or how to unravel them.
I let go of the door, letting it click shut, and turn back to the elevator.