Chapter 2
Damian instructed his security guard to leave us alone.
"She just threatened you," the man said.
"I heard her."
We rode upstairs without speaking. In the mirrored wall, I watched his hands. He watched my reflection watching them.
His office contained no family photographs. On the desk lay a stack of unsigned documents and a cup of coffee gone untouched. He indicated a chair.
I remained standing.
"You know why I'm here."
"You made the murder part clear. Explain the marriage."
"Your trust controls thirty-eight percent of the voting stock. Your own holdings aren't enough to defeat the committee if that block changes hands."
"And what do you want for your public service?"
"Access to the Moretti acquisition files. Original correspondence. Your private archive."
"No."
I picked up my bag.
"Sit down, Isabella."
"You can buy a bride who doesn't ask questions. You can't buy one whose family name makes your acquisition of my father's companies look like reconciliation."
He leaned back.
"You would let them call it reconciliation?"
"For access."
"You dislike me enough to understand the cost."
"I dislike you enough to pay it."
His phone vibrated. He rejected the call without looking.
"Corporate records," he said.
"Personal financial records relevant to Moretti. Nothing that identifies protected witnesses."
"Who decides relevance?"
"Initially, my counsel."
"Then an independent reviewer when we disagree. No destroyed records. No disappearing servers."
The smallest movement touched his mouth.
"You came prepared."
"I've had five years."
I laid the photograph faceup between us.
His expression emptied.
"Where did you get this?"
"Tell me what happened."
"Who delivered it?"
"Answer mine first."
He looked at the image for several seconds.
"Your father died in that room."
"I know."
"You know less than you think."
"Then give me records. I'm tired of men's interpretations."
He pushed the photograph back, careful not to touch the body in it.
"Forty-eight hours," he said.
"Independent lawyers. Your own money stays yours. You appear with me when reasonably required. You don't issue statements on behalf of the company without approval."
"And I don't become your employee."
"Agreed."
"Separate rooms."
"Agreed."
"No claim on my body."
Something colder entered his voice.
"That wasn't on offer."
"Good. Put it in writing anyway."
For the first time, he smiled. It wasn't kind, but it wasn't dismissive either.
I called Nadia from the adjoining conference room. She arrived forty minutes later carrying a laptop, a red pen, and enough anger to warm the marble floor.
"If you want my blessing," she told me.
"take up gardening."
"I want your advice."
"Then listen when I give it."
We worked until afternoon. She made his counsel remove a sweeping confidentiality clause. I insisted on an exception for reporting wrongdoing and consulting my own advisers. Damian objected to automatic archive access; we negotiated a secure reading room, permission to make copies that contained no protected identities, and a record of every withheld item.
"A cage with a printer," Nadia said when his counsel left.
"A room I couldn't enter yesterday."
"You could still walk away."
I glanced through the glass. Damian stood at the far end of his office, speaking quietly to a woman in a navy jacket. She looked toward me once, assessing the exits around my chair.
"I know," I said.
I needed it to be true.
The woman introduced herself as Elena Ruiz, head of security. She asked about the parcel, my apartment, the doorman. Unlike Damian, she explained why she asked.
"If someone had access to evidence from that scene, they may have access to you."
"I won't surrender my phone."
"I was going to give you my number."
I took it.
At six, we had a negotiated draft, an appointment to obtain a marriage license, and no signatures. Nadia insisted on taking the documents home for a final review.
Damian met me at the elevator.
"Someone has put you on a board," he said.
"Before you decide you're the player, ask who arranged the pieces."
"Does that include you?"
"Especially me."
That should have frightened me more than it did.
In the lobby, I called Nadia back and asked her to keep every draft. I wanted a record of what he changed when someone was watching.
At home, Nadia called while I was opening the electronic document packet.
"Don't sign anything," she said.
"I haven't."
"The last attachment isn't part of the draft we negotiated. It's an internal security schedule."
I scrolled past the financial disclosures. Past the trust certification. A scanned internal form appeared, filled in that afternoon, with my full name typed across the top.
My breathing slowed.
It wasn't a marriage clause.
It was worse. It was an instruction his security staff would receive after the ceremony, whether or not it belonged in a contract I signed.
Under CONTINGENCY AUTHORITY, a sentence had been underlined.
In the event of Isabella Moretti's betrayal of the marital arrangement, final disposal shall remain at Damian Voss's sole discretion.
At the bottom was his signature.