Chapter 3 - The Trojan HorseBy 9:00 PM, Marcus had delivered the dossier.
I sat at the mahogany desk in my hotel suite, the glow of my laptop screen illuminating the confidential files spread across the glass surface.
Her name was Clara Vance—ironic coincidence on the last name, though Marcus assured me they were unrelated. Thirty-two years of age. Former corporate communications director for a disgraced bio-tech firm in Boston that went bankrupt amidst federal fraud investigations three years ago.
And her medical history was where the real story lived.
Eighteen months ago, Clara Vance had undergone an extensive, multi-stage facial reconstruction and micro-pigmentation procedure at an exclusive, unlicensed aesthetic clinic in Switzerland—the exact same clinic favored by European royalty and intelligence assets seeking biometric alteration.
Who paid for the procedure?
A shell company registered in the Cayman Islands called Verdant Horizon LLC.
The sole beneficiary of Verdant Horizon LLC?
Ethan Brooks.
My husband had financed the creation of my replacement. He had literally built a custom-tailored wife, funded her surgeries, coached her on my mannerisms, fed her my internal memos, and integrated her into his corporate and social life while sending me away on grueling four-month merger tours across the country.
A knock at the hotel door broke the silence.
I closed the laptop, smoothed down my black silk blouse, and walked over to the peephole.
Standing in the hallway alone was Ethan.
He looked wretched. The polished CEO exterior had completely melted away. His tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned, and his eyes were bloodshot.
I opened the door just wide enough to block his entrance.
"Olivia," he choked out, raising a hand as if to touch my shoulder. "Thank God. Please... you have to listen to me. It's not what you think. It's... it's complicated."
"Complicated," I repeated, my voice dripping with ice. "That's an interesting word for bigamy, identity fraud, and conspiracy to commit grand financial larceny."
Ethan flinched as if struck. He dropped his hand, staring at me with a mixture of fear and pathetic desperation. "How much do you know?"
"I know Clara had her face restructured in Zurich using money from one of your Cayman slush funds," I said smoothly, leaning against the doorframe. "I know she’s been living in our Aspen estate, wearing my jewelry, and playing housewife to the local country club while I was out securing the four-billion-dollar acquisition that keeps your company out of bankruptcy court."
Ethan swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Olivia, look at the company's books. We were drowning. Your father’s legacy was choking us with rigid governance rules. I needed control of the voting shares. I needed... I needed a partner who wouldn't look down on me, who would do what I wanted without thirty years of history getting in the way."
"So you didn't just want a divorce," I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the terrifying calm of a predator closing in on its prey. "You wanted to erase me legally while keeping my assets. You wanted a corpse that could sign documents."
"No!" Ethan lied instantly, though his eyes darted away from mine. "No, it wasn't like that. Clara... Clara understood me. She made me feel powerful again."
"Well, Ethan," I smiled—a cold, humorless curve of my lips that made him recoil. "Enjoy the feeling while it lasts. Because tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, the board of directors, the federal securities commission, and the local police department are going to find out that the woman currently acting as 'Mrs. Brooks' is an impostor occupying a corporate officer's residence illegally."
Ethan lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the door before I could close it. "You can't do that! If you involve the SEC, the merger collapses! The stock will tank! Our entire net worth—everything we built—will vanish overnight!"
"Not our net worth, Ethan," I corrected softly, sliding my hand over the door latch. "My net worth. You're just an employee who forgot whose name is on the deed."
I slammed the door in his face.
May you like
On the other side, I heard his muffled, frantic fist pound against the wood, followed by his desperate pleading. I didn't flinch. I walked back to my desk, picked up my phone, and dialed Marcus.
"Marcus," I said. "Bring the legal team and the federal marshals. We're crashing breakfast tomorrow."
