The black sedan didn't move.
Vivian stood on the corner, the envelope clutched against her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The coffee shop door was behind her. The office was ten blocks away.
Don't run, she told herself. Running makes you look guilty.
She walked.
Fast. Not quite a jog. Just fast enough that her heels clicked against the pavement like gunfire.
The sedan pulled away from the curb.
It didn't speed. Didn't swerve. Just drifted after her like a shark following a wounded fish.
Vivian crossed the street. The sedan crossed behind her.
She turned left. The sedan turned left.
She stopped in front of a deli and pretended to look at the menu in the window. The sedan pulled to the curb twenty feet away. The engine idled. The windows were too dark to see inside.
Her phone buzzed.
Don't look back. Just walk.
She didn't recognize the number.
Who is this?
A friend. The car is Derek's. He knows you met with Margaret. He knows you have the files.
Vivian's blood ran cold.
What does he want?
To scare you. For now. But if you don't hand over the files, he'll do more than scare you.
I'm not giving him anything.
Then you'd better run.
The sedan's engine revved.
Vivian ran.
She didn't look back. She didn't stop. She ran through the lunchtime crowds, weaving between tourists and delivery carts and people who shouted at her to watch where she was going.
The Sterling Group tower appeared at the end of the block. Glass and steel and the promise of safety.
She swiped her badge. The revolving doors swallowed her.
The lobby was bright and cold and full of people who didn't look at her. She ran to the express elevator and pressed the button. Once. Twice. Three times.
The doors opened.
She stepped inside. The doors closed.
The sedan was pulling away from the curb.
She watched it disappear around the corner, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
The elevator opened on the forty-eighth floor.
Lucian was standing at her desk, reading something on her computer. He looked up when she stumbled out.
"Vivian? What happened?"
She held up the envelope. "I found her. Derek's old secretary. She gave me files. Copies of everything. Emails, memos, transfer requests." Her voice was shaking. "And then a car followed me. Black sedan. Same one from last night."
Lucian's face went cold. "Did you see who was inside?"
"The windows were tinted."
He took the envelope from her hands and set it on the desk. Then he pulled out his phone and typed a quick message.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Calling security. And my lawyer." He looked at her. "You're not going home tonight."
"Where am I going?"
"With me."
Karen appeared in the doorway of the inner office.
"Lucian, the Carringtons are on the line again. They're getting impatient."
"Tell them I'll call them back."
"They won't—"
"Then tell them to wait." His voice was sharp. "I'm busy."
Karen's eyes flicked to Vivian. To the envelope on the desk. To the way Lucian was standing—too close, too protective.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Nothing that concerns you."
"Everything that happens in this office concerns me." She stepped forward. "You've been acting strange all week. Both of you. And now she shows up looking like she's seen a ghost."
"Karen." Lucian's voice was a warning.
"No." She pointed at Vivian. "I've been watching you. You think I don't notice? The way he looks at you. The way you look at him. The late nights. The private meetings." Her voice rose. "What are you hiding?"
"That's enough." Lucian stepped between them. "Go back to your office. Now."
Karen stared at him. For a moment, Vivian thought she was going to argue. Then her expression shifted—from anger to something colder. Something calculated.
"Fine," she said. "But this isn't over."
She walked away.
The door to her office slammed.
Lucian turned to Vivian. "We need to move faster."
"She's going to tell Derek."
"Probably." He picked up the envelope. "Which means we have maybe a day before he tries to destroy this evidence."
"Can he do that?"
"He can try." Lucian's jaw tightened. "But I've been preparing for this for five years. I have copies of everything. In multiple locations. If he wants a war, I'll give him one."
"What about me?"
He looked at her. Really looked at her. The way he had in the hotel room—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"You stay close to me. You don't go anywhere alone. You don't answer calls from numbers you don't recognize." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "And you trust me."
"I do."
"Good."
They worked through the afternoon.
Lucian made calls—to his lawyer, to a private investigator, to someone at the FBI who owed him a favor. Vivian organized the files, cross-referencing dates and names and dollar amounts.
By 6:00 PM, they had a timeline.
Derek Sterling had started siphoning money from the company eight years ago. Thomas Sterling had discovered it three years later. He'd recruited Vivian's father to help him gather evidence. Derek had found out. Thomas had died. Vivian's father had died. And Derek had been covering his tracks ever since.
"He's good," Lucian said, staring at the board they'd created on the wall. "I'll give him that. Every transfer is routed through at least three shell companies. The paper trail is a maze."
"But we have the maze," Vivian said.
"We have pieces of the maze. We don't have the center." He turned to her. "The center is his personal computer. The one in his office. The one that's not connected to the company network."
"How do we get into it?"
"We don't. I do." He walked to his desk and pulled out a small device—a USB drive. "I've had this for two years. A keylogger. It records every keystroke. I just need five minutes alone in his office."
"That's breaking and entering."
"That's justice." He looked at her. "Are you in?"
Vivian thought about her father's journal. About the note that said Don't let him win.
"I'm in."
At 8:00 PM, they left the office.
Lucian drove. Vivian sat in the passenger seat, the envelope in her lap, her eyes on the side mirror. No black sedan. No tail.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"My place. It's safer than yours."
"Safer how?"
"Armed security. Cameras. A panic room." He glanced at her. "I told you. I've been preparing for this."
His apartment was in a building on the Upper East Side, the kind of building where the doorman wore white gloves and the elevator required a key card. Lucian led her to the top floor.
The apartment was huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of Central Park. Furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable.
"You live here alone?" Vivian asked.
"Yes."
"It's… big."
"It's empty." He walked to the window and looked out. "I bought it after my father died. I thought if I had enough space, I wouldn't feel so trapped."
"Do you?"
"Feel trapped?" He turned. "Less now."
Vivian didn't know what to say to that.
He showed her to a guest room—white walls, a king bed, fresh flowers on the nightstand. "You can sleep here. There's a bathroom through that door. If you need anything, I'm down the hall."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He paused at the door. "Derek isn't going to stop. He's going to come after us. And when he does, I need to know you're ready."
"I'm ready."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded and walked away.
Vivian didn't sleep.
She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the envelope on the nightstand beside her. Every sound made her jump. Every shadow looked like a figure.
At 2:00 AM, she got up.
She walked down the hall to the living room. The city lights glowed through the windows, painting the walls in shades of gold and gray.
Lucian was sitting on the couch.
He was still in his shirt from yesterday, his tie gone, his sleeves rolled up. A glass of whiskey sat on the table in front of him, untouched.
"You should be sleeping," he said.
"So should you."
"I don't sleep much." He looked at her. "Nightmares."
"About your father?"
"About everything." He picked up the glass, then set it down again. "I keep thinking about what Margaret said. That Derek owns the police. That he owns almost everything."
"He doesn't own you."
"No." He looked at her. "He doesn't own you either."
Vivian sat down on the couch beside him. Not close. Just close enough that she could feel the warmth of his arm.
"What happens tomorrow?" she asked.
"Tomorrow, we go to the FBI. We show them the files. We tell them everything." He turned to face her. "And then we wait."
"And if they don't believe us?"
"Then we find another way."
They sat in silence. The city hummed below them.
"Lucian?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For not giving up."
He reached over and took her hand. His fingers were warm.
"I told you," he said. "I've been waiting five years for someone to help me finish this. I'm not going to stop now."
Vivian leaned her head against his shoulder.
They stayed like that until the sun began to rise.
End of Chapter Eight