Chapter 3 - The First Move
Ten minutes later, the heavy suite door swung open with a dramatic bang.
“Emma?” Ethan’s voice called out, laced with forced concern as he strode into the entryway. “Emma, where are you? I’ve been looking all over the hotel for you!”
I stood on the dimly lit terrace, leaning elegantly against the wrought-iron railing, holding a fresh glass of iced water. I turned around slowly, letting a soft, innocent smile touch my lips.
“I’m out here, darling,” I said, my voice sweet, light, and completely unbothered.
Ethan stepped through the sliding glass doors, sweeping his eyes over me. He looked slightly flustered, his hair mildly ruffled as if he had just run up the stairs.
“What were you doing out here in the cold?” he asked, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around my waist. The faint scent of Chloe’s Tom Ford perfume hit my nose instantly, making my skin crawl, but I didn't pull away. I leaned into his touch with practiced ease.
“I was just looking at the city skyline,” I murmured, resting my head against his chest—the very chest that had held Chloe Vance forty minutes ago. “Thinking about our new life. Thinking about our penthouse in Oakwood Hills.”
I felt his posture stiffen for a fraction of a second before he recovered, smoothing his hand down my back.
“Ah, yes. The penthouse,” Ethan said, his tone shifting into that gentle, patronizing tone he used whenever he spoke about money. “You know, sweetheart... I was talking to my mother downstairs just now. She raised a few valid concerns about the property management structure.”
“Oh?” I asked, tilting my head up to look at him with wide, curious eyes. “What kind of concerns?”
“Well,” Ethan began, guiding me back inside the warm suite and sliding the glass door shut behind us. “Since the money for the closing went through my private account, my mother’s legal advisors mentioned that having your name listed as a primary co-trustee might complicate our tax filings next year. Because your income bracket is so much lower than mine, the IRS might view the property transfer as an undeclared gift.”
It was almost laughable how quickly he was moving. He couldn't even wait for the wedding night to end before dropping the first seeds of his financial trap.
“Is that so?” I asked softly, sitting on the edge of the plush bed where his mother had tossed her purse earlier. “So what did Vanessa suggest?”
“She suggested that we temporarily transfer the title deed into the Sterling Family Holdings Trust,” Ethan said smoothly, kneeling down in front of me and taking my hands in his. His eyes shone with practiced sincerity. “Just for six months, sweetie. Until our joint tax return is processed. Once that’s clear, we’ll put your name back on the deed as an equal owner. It’s just a routine administrative step to protect us from a surprise tax audit.”
I looked down at his hands—the hands wearing the gold band I had purchased for him three weeks ago at a luxury jeweler on Michigan Avenue.
“That sounds very complicated, Ethan,” I said, letting a tiny note of hesitation enter my voice. “I’d feel much more comfortable if my family’s attorney reviewed the paperwork first.”
Ethan’s smile faltered slightly. A flicker of annoyance crossed his dark eyes.
“Your family’s attorney?” he echoed, a subtle edge of mockery slipping into his tone. “Emma, your late uncle’s small-town lawyer retired three years ago. You don't have a corporate legal team. I’m a senior financial officer at an investment firm, darling. I handle multi-million-dollar asset structures every day. Don't you trust me?”
He leaned in, pressing his lips against my forehead in a gesture meant to be soothing, but which felt like a cold snake sliding across my skin.
“I trust you, Ethan,” I lied, looking straight into his deceptive eyes. “More than you could possibly imagine.”
“Good,” he whispered, smoothing my hair. “We’ll drop by the title office on Monday morning and sign the temporary transfer forms. Now, why don't you get changed out of that heavy gown? You look exhausted. You’ve had a very overwhelming day.”
“You’re right,” I said, standing up and pulling my delicate silk train out of his grip. “I am exhausted. In fact, I think I’ll sleep in the adjoining suite tonight.”
Ethan blinked, completely caught off guard. “What? Emma, it’s our wedding night!”
“I know, darling,” I said, walking toward the connecting interior door that led to the suite’s private sitting room. I turned, giving him a cool, radiant smile that made him freeze in place. “But my head is spinning. I’d hate to have an emotional outburst on our very first night as husband and wife.”
Before he could process the exact words I had used—the exact phrase his mother had spoken beneath the bed—I stepped into the room, turned the heavy brass key in the lock, and closed the door between us.
Inside the quiet sitting room, I walked over to the writing desk, opened my laptop, and logged into the secure, encrypted server of Carter Apex Development.
At 11:45 PM, I dispatched four emails.
The first was to Arthur Vance, the Senior Managing Partner of Vance & Sterling Legal Counsel in Chicago—a firm that happened to depend on my father’s conglomerate for seventy percent of its annual retainers.
The second was to the Chief Executive Officer of Premier Financial Management—Ethan’s direct employer—requesting an immediate audit of Ethan Sterling’s personal expense accounts and regional transaction logs regarding a corporate trip to Denver in May.
The third was to the Master Leasing Director of the Oakwood Hills Penthouse Complex, revoking Ethan Sterling’s electronic keycard access to the building effective immediately at 12:00 AM.
And the fourth was to a elite private investigation team in Manhattan, attaching a photograph of Chloe Vance.
By the time I finished, the clock on the wall struck midnight.
May you like
I leaned back in my leather armchair, looking out over the glittering lights of Chicago. Ethan believed he had spent the last two years setting a trap for a helpless girl.
He had no idea that sunrise was coming—and with it, the destruction of everything he held dear.
