Chapter 3: First Light
Morning came too quiet. No alarm. No shouting from downstairs. Just sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin gold lines across the bed. I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the usual knot in my stomach to tighten. It didn't.
I sat up. The room smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen. My old clothes from last night were gone—taken while I slept, probably. In their place, a fresh suit hung on the door. Charcoal gray. Simple cut. The kind that cost money but didn't scream it.
I showered longer than I needed to. Hot water ran over skin that still felt raw from the rain and everything else. When I stepped out, steam fogged the mirror. I wiped a streak clear and looked at myself. Same face. Same eyes. But they looked different. Sharper maybe. Or maybe I was just imagining it.
Downstairs Harlan waited in the dining room. Table set for one. Coffee steaming. A plate of eggs, toast, fruit. Nothing flashy. Just food.
"Morning, sir," he said. He didn't smile. He never really did. But there was something steady in his voice that felt like the closest thing to comfort I'd had in years.
I sat. Poured coffee. Black. No sugar. "What's the first move?"
He placed a tablet in front of me. Screen already lit. A dashboard. Numbers scrolling. Charts. Names. Faces.
"Harrington Group's quarterly report drops in three days," he said. "They're projecting strong growth. Stock up five percent this month. But their debt load is heavier than they're admitting. Offshore accounts. Creative accounting. Nothing illegal on the surface. Yet."
I scrolled. Saw the figures. Red flags everywhere if you knew where to look.
"They've been leaning on a merger with Langford Industries," Harlan continued. "Big money. Bigger promises. Langford's CEO is meeting Victoria tomorrow afternoon. Private lunch. The kind where deals get sealed over wine and handshakes."
I stopped scrolling. A photo popped up. Victoria in a cream blazer, smiling at the camera like she owned the world. Next to her, the Langford guy. Mid-forties. Polished. The same man who'd taken her hand on stage last night.
My grip tightened on the tablet. Not hard. Just enough to feel the edge bite into my palm.
Harlan watched me. "We can block it quietly. A few calls. A whisper to the right regulator. Or we can let it play out and hit them harder later."
I set the tablet down. Took a sip of coffee. It was good. Strong. "Let it play out."
He nodded once. No judgment.
"There's something else," he said. He slid another folder across the table. Thinner this time. Plain manila.
I opened it.
Bank statements. Transfers. Small at first. Then bigger. All from Harrington accounts to an offshore shell company. Dates lined up with the times they'd accused me of skimming petty cash. Receipts attached. Forged signatures that looked a lot like mine if you didn't look close.
"They didn't just frame me," I said quietly. "They used my name to hide their own theft."
"Precisely."
I closed the folder. "How much?"
"Over two million. Spread out. Easy to miss unless someone was looking."
Someone had been looking. For years.
I pushed the folder back. "Send it to their board. Anonymously. Let them start asking questions."
Harlan made a small note on his phone. "Done by noon."
I stood up. Walked to the window. The city spread out below like a map I used to feel small under. Not anymore.
"What about Victoria?" I asked without turning.
"She's at her apartment. Packing for the weekend. She thinks she's free now."
I pictured her there. Alone in that big place. Maybe second-guessing. Maybe not.
"Monitor her," I said. "Phone. Email. Everything. I want to know when she realizes."
Harlan didn't ask why. He just nodded.
I turned back to him. "And me? What do I do today?"
He gestured toward the hallway. "Your grandfather left instructions. There's a room downstairs. He called it the vault. Biometrics still recognize you."
I followed him down a set of stairs I hadn't used since I was a kid. Steel door at the bottom. Scanner. I pressed my thumb to it. Green light. Click.
The door slid open.
Inside: walls of screens. Filing cabinets. A single desk with a leather chair. On the desk, a single photo in a frame. Me at eighteen. Grandfather next to me. Both of us smiling like the world couldn't touch us.
I picked it up. Dust on the glass. I wiped it clean with my sleeve.
Harlan stayed by the door. "He said when you were ready, this would be yours. The keys to everything."
I set the photo down. Sat in the chair. It fit like it had been waiting.
Screens flickered to life. Access granted. Layers of data unfolding. Companies. Assets. People. Power.
I exhaled slowly.
This wasn't revenge yet. Not really.
This was just the beginning of understanding what I'd given up.
And what they'd taken.
I leaned forward. Started reading.
Outside the vault the house was quiet.
Inside, something in me finally started moving again.
Like a machine that had been switched off for too long.
Now it was humming.
And it wasn't going to stop.