Chapter 2
For the next four hours, Adam was a ghost haunting Seat 2A.
He furiously typed messages that wouldn’t send, called numbers that went straight to voicemail over the patchy satellite connection, and stared blankly at a screen displaying the absolute evaporation of his financial empire.
Trinity, however, was not sitting idly by.
She was a crisis manager by trade. She smelled blood in the water. She had paid for her own Wi-Fi connection and was currently scrolling through her own phone, her brow furrowed in deep concentration.
I was in the galley preparing the espresso machine when Sarah slipped behind the curtain, her eyes wide.
“Dakota,” she whispered. “I just overheard the woman in 2B. Trinity. She’s on a voice note with someone. She was talking about a condo.”
I stopped wiping the stainless steel counter. “Tell me exactly what she said.”
“She said Adam is supposed to sign the final deeds for a luxury condo in Tuscany the moment you land,” Sarah recounted quickly. “She said he used funds from his consulting firm, and that ‘his stupid wife has no idea he moved the capital offshore.'”
A cold, sharp clarity settled over me.
This was no longer just an affair funded by stolen company money. This was an offshore asset purchase designed to hide marital funds permanently.
Adam had forgotten one crucial, fatal detail about the genesis of his success.
Years ago, when we first started, Adam had terrible credit. To secure the business loans, the consulting firm had been incorporated entirely under my name. For tax and liability purposes, I was the sole proprietor. Adam was merely a salaried director with signatory power.
If he had moved massive amounts of capital to buy overseas real estate under his own name, he hadn’t just embezzled. He had committed federal wire fraud and forged my signature as the company owner.
I pulled out my phone and connected to the crew Wi-Fi. I sent a single, encrypted message to my cousin, Marcus, a senior partner at a ruthless litigation firm in Chicago.
Check the Tuscany property registry. Adam Gibson. Look for forged authorization from Gibson Consulting. Involve Interpol if necessary. We land in two hours.
I pocketed my phone and stepped back out into the cabin.
The dinner service had concluded, and the cabin lights were dimmed to a deep, soothing blue. Arthur Sterling was reading a hardcover biography, sipping tea. Adam was staring out the window into the pitch-black night over the Atlantic, looking like a man realizing he had jumped out of a plane without a parachute.
Trinity stood up abruptly, brushing past Adam without a word, and marched toward the forward lavatory.
As she passed the galley, I stepped out, blocking her path.
“Excuse me,” she said icily.
“The lavatories are currently occupied,” I lied effortlessly. “But while you wait, Trinity, perhaps we should chat.”
She crossed her arms, her designer rings catching the dim light. “I have nothing to say to you. Your husband is a liar. If you think I knew you were together, you’re delusional.”
“Oh, I know you didn’t,” I said smoothly. “You’re a PR consultant. You deal in risk assessment. If you knew Adam was legally married to the sole owner of his company, you never would have let him put your name on the deed to that condo in Tuscany.”
Trinity’s breath hitched. Her carefully constructed composure shattered.
“How do you…” she started, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“I own the company, Trinity,” I said, leaning in close. “Every dollar Adam spent on you, every flight, every hotel, and the down payment for that Italian villa—he stole it from my personal corporate accounts. And since he used my forged signature to do it, it’s not just a marital dispute. It’s a felony.”
Trinity’s eyes darted frantically. The gears in her mind were spinning, calculating the damage to her own reputation, her own legal liability.
“I had nothing to do with the financing,” she stammered, stepping back. “He told me it was his money. He handled the paperwork.”
“I’m sure the authorities will find your explanation fascinating,” I replied, offering her a sweet, poisonous smile. “The lavatory is free now.”
I watched her walk into the small bathroom and lock the door. She didn’t come out for twenty minutes. When she finally returned to her seat, she didn’t look at Adam. She pulled her laptop from her bag and began typing furiously.
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The crisis manager was no longer managing Adam’s crisis. She was preparing her own defense.
And Adam, sitting right next to her, had absolutely no idea that his mistress was currently compiling a digital dossier to feed him to the wolves.
