The call ended shortly after. Marina said she would prepare for court and send a draft opposition within the hour.
At 5:22, my doorman called.
“Ms. Vale, there’s a delivery for you.”
“From whom?”
There was a hesitation.
“It’s marked personal.”
“Send it up with security.”
Ten minutes later, a small black box sat on my kitchen island.
No label.
No return address.
Just my name, written in silver ink.
ALEXANDRA VALE.
Security waited while I opened it.
Inside was a flash drive and a folded note.
The note contained one sentence.
He knows the wrong secret.
No signature.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
Then I plugged the flash drive into an isolated laptop that had never touched my home network.
One video file appeared.
I clicked play.
The footage was from a hotel bar. Dim lighting. Polished wood. A vase of white orchids near the frame.
