I squeezed myself into the narrow gap between two heavy wardrobe trunks.
The smell of mothballs and damp cedar pressed into my throat.
I held the blue notebook tight against my chest.
The hinges of the attic door groaned.
A thin beam of light swept across the dusty floorboards.
I saw the polished leather of a pair of expensive loafers.
It was Carter.
He stepped into the room, his breathing heavy and uneven.
“Evelyn?” he called out, his voice a low whisper.
He didn’t sound angry; he sounded desperate.
The beam of his flashlight danced over the boxes near the door.
I stayed absolutely still, my knees pressing into the hard wood of the trunk.
My heart hammered against my ribs so loudly I was certain he would hear it.
He took three steps forward, then stopped.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, the blue glow of the screen illuminating his pale face.
“Yeah,” he said, answering the call in a hushed tone.
“I’m looking for them now.”
He listened for a moment, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.
“Vivian said they were in the leather trunk near the window,” he said.
“If Lydia gets her hands on those original estate files, we’re done.”
He paused, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the attic.
“I know what’s at stake, Sloane,” he snapped.
My hand tightened on the blue notebook.
Sloane was directing him from the office.
“Just keep the servers secure,” Carter said.
“If she tries to log in, shut her down.”
He ended the call and kicked a small cardboard box out of his way.
He walked toward the far side of the attic, away from my hiding spot.
He began rummaging through a stack of plastic bins.
I took a slow, silent breath and looked down at the notebook in my lap.
I cracked it open slightly, using the faint, ambient light from the high window.
My eyes adjusted to the gray gloom.
The columns in my mother’s handwriting began to make sense.
*H-7-B* was not a random filing code.
According to her notes, it stood for *Hartwell-Seventh-Bancroft*.
It was a private holding account registered in the Cayman Islands.
My mother had written the account number in blue ink: *994-002-H7B*.
Next to it, she had noted three separate wire transfers from her estate.
The first was for one point two million dollars.
The second was for two million.
The third was for one point eight million.
All of them had been authorized by Vivian Hartwell using a forged power of attorney.
My mother had discovered the theft just weeks before she died.
In the margin, she had written: *They are completely insolvent. The Hartwell name is a shell.*
My hands started to shake.
They didn’t just marry me for my family’s connections.
They had stolen my mother’s entire fortune to save themselves from a public bankruptcy.
Hartwell House, the family business, their high-society standing—it was all paid for with stolen Vale money.
And now, they were trying to take Vale House from me to cover up the rest of their debts.
A loud crash echoed through the attic.
Carter had knocked over a stack of old picture frames.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
He shone his flashlight toward the ceiling, then toward the door.
“Evelyn?” he called out again, his voice sharper this time.
He started walking back toward the stairs.
I drew my legs in closer, hiding behind the shadow of the wardrobe.
His footsteps grew louder, then faded as he reached the landing.
The attic door clicked shut behind him.
I waited five long minutes before I dared to move.
My limbs were stiff and cold.
I crawled out from behind the trunks and grabbed the leather ledger from the floor.
I stuffed both the ledger and the blue notebook into my canvas bag.
I had to get out of the house before Carter realized I had been up here.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
I dialed Lydia’s number.
She answered on the second ring.
“Evelyn? Did you find anything?”
“I found it all,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
“They stole five million dollars from my mother’s estate twenty-four years ago.”
“What?” Lydia gasped. “Are you sure?”
“I have her personal ledger and her private journal,” I said.
“It’s all here. The account numbers, the transfer dates, Vivian’s forged signatures.”
“This changes everything,” Lydia said. “If we can prove fraud, the prenuptial agreement is completely void.”
“And the house?” I asked.
“The house, the land, their entire estate belongs to you as restitution,” Lydia said.
“But Evelyn, you need to get those documents to my office immediately.”
“I’m leaving now,” I said.
“Wait,” Lydia said, her tone suddenly urgent.
“Are you still at Hartwell House?”
“Yes, I’m in the attic.”
“Be careful,” she said. “I just got a notification from our system.”
“What kind of notification?” I asked.
“Someone is trying to bypass the security protocols on the Vale House main frame,” Lydia said.
“They’re using an administrator key from inside your personal office.”
My stomach dropped.
“Sloane,” I said.
“She’s trying to lock you out of the company servers,” Lydia warned.
“If she deletes the proprietary design files, we won’t have a business left to save.”
“I’m on my way,” I said.
I hung up the phone and slipped it back into my pocket.
I moved quietly down the attic stairs, my heart pounding in my ears.
The hallway below was dark and silent.
I reached the first floor without seeing Carter or Vivian.
I slipped out the side door into the cold, damp Newport air.
Fog was rolling in from the harbor, thick and gray.
I got into my car and threw my bag onto the passenger seat.
I started the engine and tore down the gravel driveway.
The headlights cut through the heavy mist as I sped toward the office.
My mind was racing with every design I had created over the last ten years.
Every sketch, every fabric patent, every client list was stored on those servers.
If Sloane wiped them, Vale House would be nothing but an empty name.
I reached the office building in less than ten minutes.
The parking lot was mostly empty, except for Sloane’s silver sedan.
The headlights of her car were still warm, the engine ticking in the cold.
I grabbed my bag and ran to the front door of the building.
I swiped my keycard against the scanner.
The light blinked red.
I swiped it again.
Another red light.
*Access Denied.*
My breath hitched in my chest.
She had already deactivated my primary security clearance.
I ran around to the back of the building, toward the loading dock.
My hands were freezing as I fumbled with the emergency keypad.
I entered the master override code my mother had set up years ago.
The lock clicked open.
I slipped inside, the heavy metal door shutting quietly behind me.
The hallway was dark, illuminated only by the green exit signs.
I walked quickly toward the executive suite, my boots making soft thuds on the carpet.
As I neared my office, I saw a sliver of light shining under the door.
I could hear the hum of the server cooling fans from the adjacent room.
I reached for the doorknob, my fingers cold and stiff.
I slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Sloane was sitting at my desk, the glow of two large monitors lighting up her face.
She didn’t look up immediately.
Her fingers were flying across the keyboard.
On the screen, a progress bar was moving rapidly toward ninety percent.
The header on the screen read: *Format Directory: Vale_House_Designs_Archived*.
“Stop,” I said, my voice cold and steady.
Sloane paused, her fingers hovering over the keys.
She slowly turned her head and looked at me, a calm, mocking smile spreading across her lips.