ELLIOT VALE.
My maiden name had never been Vale.
It was his.
And tomorrow morning, Ronald Cobb planned to bring a dead man into court.
Part 3
“Miss Carter,” the elderly voice on the phone said, smooth as polished marble, “the board is assembled. The documents are ready. And your protection detail has arrived.”
I looked at the security monitor.
Outside my penthouse door, Ronald was still standing with his hands on his hips, trying to look powerful while a locksmith packed up his tools and avoided eye contact. Priscilla hovered behind him, pale beneath her expensive makeup, one hand pressed dramatically to her chest as though she had been personally betrayed by the entire banking system.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because for five years, I had lived beside a man who thought he knew everything about me, and in that moment, he didn’t even understand the smallest fraction of what was happening.
