Chapter 3

It was late when I got home.

Preston was sitting in the living room, drinking whiskey and replying to message after message on his phone.

He looked far too pleased with himself to hide it.

When I walked in, he didn’t even look up.

“How much cash does the studio have available right now?”

I set down my keys without answering.

He finally looked up.

“I’m in the final stage of the director promotion. I need five hundred thousand to cover some expenses.”

“Once the appointment comes through next week, I’ll pay you back with interest.”

He said it as though the studio I had built one stitch at a time were simply another account he was entitled to use.

I turned and walked into the study.

A few moments later, I came back with a loan agreement.

“Sign this.”

He frowned.

“We’re married. Do we really need paperwork?”

“The studio has an accountant,” I replied calmly.

“Every transfer has to be documented.”

Preston was clearly out of patience.

He didn’t even read the agreement.

He picked up the pen, scrawled his name across the final page, and tossed it back to me.

“Happy now?”

Then he grabbed his car keys.

“Don’t wait up.”

The front door slammed behind him.

The living room fell silent again.

I picked up the agreement.

Checked the signature.

Then placed it inside the safe.

The first lock clicked into place.

The next day, I returned to Sterling Group headquarters as scheduled to discuss the fall and winter uniform order.

After leaving the purchasing department, I found the young intern alone in the employee break room.

She stood beside the counter, staring at an untouched paper cup. When she saw me, her eyes immediately moved toward the hallway.

I didn’t mention Preston or ask her to explain.

I simply placed a business card on the counter between us.

“My name is Sloane Mercer,” I said quietly. “If you ever decide you want to talk, call me.”

Then I walked away.

When I reached the door, I looked back once.

She was still standing beside the counter.

But the card was gone.

That afternoon, the entire administrative department suddenly came alive.

HR had sent out an email.

Preston didn’t even open it.

The moment he saw the word Finalist in the subject line, he could barely contain himself.

“I did it!”

In front of the entire department, he pulled Brielle into his arms.

“Next week, I’ll be the regional director.”

Brielle beamed at him.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Preston lifted his chin.

“Once I’m in charge, the entire administrative department answers to me.”

He smiled down at her.

“Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

Several coworkers laughed and applauded.

No one reminded him.

Finalist.

It meant he was one of the final candidates.

It did not mean he had been appointed.

That evening, the studio was so quiet that the soft hum of the sewing machine was the only sound.

I placed Preston’s signed loan agreement beside my laptop.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

He had called it promotion expenses.

The amount on Sterling Group’s false fabric invoice was four hundred and eighty-seven thousand six hundred.

Too close to be a coincidence.

I entered the account information Preston had written beneath the transfer instructions into the bank’s verification portal.

The recipient name appeared first.

Hayes Procurement Consulting.

I had never heard of it.

Then I searched the name through the state business registry.

The company had been registered six months earlier.

Its mailing address matched the one listed on Sterling Group’s false invoice.

I pulled up the invoice copy the purchasing manager had sent me that afternoon.

Attached to it was the payment confirmation.

One number stopped me cold.

$487,600.

Sterling Group.

Fabric reimbursement.

I opened the attached invoice.

Supplier: Mercer Studio.

Material: Italian Super 180s wool.

Authorized by: Sloane Mercer.

My studio was there.

My address was there.

Even my signature was there.

But I had never seen the document before.

I enlarged the signature.

Whoever had copied it had used an old vendor contract as a reference. They had copied the shape perfectly, but they had missed one detail.

I had changed the way I signed the letter M two years ago.

My phone lit up.

Preston.

The transfer needs to clear tonight.

Another message appeared.

Don’t make this difficult, Sloane.

I looked from his words to the forged invoice.

For three years, I had believed Preston hid our marriage because he was ashamed of his wife.

I finally understood.

He needed Sterling Group to believe Mercer Studio had no connection to him.

And now he wanted me to send him the exact amount he needed to close the hole.

At 9:07, I authorized the transfer under the terms of the agreement he had signed.

Four minutes later, the studio door slammed open hard enough to strike the wall.

Preston stormed into the back office without removing his coat. Whiskey clung to his breath.

He seized the front of my blouse and drove me against the safe.

“The bank flagged the transfer for review.” His eyes were bloodshot, stripped of every trace of the polished charm he wore at Sterling. “What did you put in that agreement?”

The cold metal pressed into my spine. Inside that safe were the documents he would have destroyed if he ever saw them.

My heart hammered so hard it hurt, but I forced a smile.

“Preston, you’re not only greedy. You’re careless.”

“Open it.”

He shoved me aside and slapped his palm against the fingerprint reader.

A red light flashed.

ACCESS DENIED.

He tried again.

The safe gave a sharp warning tone. One more failed attempt would trigger a full lockout and send an alert to the studio’s security service.

His hand moved toward the override switch.

My lungs tightened as I reached behind me and closed my fingers around the heavy granite tailor’s weight on the desk.

If he touched that switch, I would have one chance to stop him—and no idea which of us would still be standing when the alarm went silent.