Chapter 2

2

The next forty-eight hours felt like they were on fast-forward.

On Friday night, I cooked a full dinner and waited for Sienna.

She looked at the table when she walked in.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing. I just felt like cooking.”

She changed into her slippers and sat down.

She took a bite of a rib and chewed.

“A bit too salty.”

“I’ll use less salt next time.”

She poked at some broccoli, then set her fork down and grabbed her phone.

“Silas said he ordered takeout and it’s terrible. I’m going to bring him some food.”

I looked at her.

“The food is fresh.”

“He doesn't know how to cook. The takeout is inedible, and he’s starving.”

“He’s thirty years old. He can order a second meal.”

Sienna looked up at me.

There was a flash of impatience in her eyes, as if I were being incredibly immature.

“What is wrong with you? Weren't you being mature the other night?”

“Being mature is one thing―”

“Asher.” She turned her screen toward me. “Look, he really did get a gross meal.”

It was a photo of some soggy-looking stir-fry.

Silas had added a crying emoji.

“Fine.” I stood up and packed the steak into a container. “Take this to him. It’s not salty.”

Her fingers brushed mine as she took the container. They were cold.

“I’m going now.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure. He’s been under a lot of pressure at work lately. I need to talk to him.”

She left.

The door closed more softly than usual―probably because she was trying not to spill the food.

I sat at the table and watched the remaining dishes grow cold.

An hour later, I sent a text.

“Are you there yet?”

No reply.

Another thirty minutes passed, and I called.

It rang six times before going to voicemail.

I opened Instagram.

The first post was from Silas, posted just a minute ago.

A woman’s hand was resting on a pillow.

The silver bracelet on her ring finger caught the light.

The caption was one word: “Passionate.”

The location tag: The Grandview Residences, Tower 3.

That was his apartment.

There were seven comments. Sienna’s brother had posted a thumbs-up. Her mother had liked it.

Sienna’s secret account posted a story.

She probably forgot I was on her list.

“Some people can’t give the experience others can. Don’t blame me.”

Zero likes, zero comments.

I screenshotted the post and sent it to Dominic.

Dominic replied: “Save it. Keep collecting.”

I put the phone down.

I spent thirty minutes eating the cold meal alone.

Then I washed the dishes, wiped the counters, and took out the trash.

As I washed my hands at the sink, I caught my reflection in the window.

I looked calm. Surprisingly calm.

That night, I flipped through our old photo album.

I found a picture from our wedding day.

My mother was in a formal gown, and my father stood beside me, looking as stern as ever.

Sienna was clinging to my arm, smiling brightly.

On the back, my father had written in ink: “Son, as long as you’re happy.”

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I dialed my father’s number.

It rang four times.

“Dad.”

“What’s wrong? It’s late.”

“I need to talk.”

There was a three-second silence.

My father could gauge the severity of a situation in three seconds.

“Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

My mother’s voice joined the call. “Asher? What happened?”

“Sienna has a close friend. His name is Silas Grant.”

I gave them the short version of the story.

My father didn't interrupt once.

My mother asked three questions: when it started, if the evidence was solid, and what I planned to do.

After I finished, my father stayed silent for a moment.

Then he spoke.

“Tomorrow afternoon. I’m sending the legal team from the headquarters to your place. Send me the address.”

“Also,” his voice dropped an octave, “I’ll give the district attorney a call. Silas works at the building department. He answers to the oversight committee.”

My mother added two words.

“Don't endure.”

At 2:00 PM the next day, three men in sharp suits rang my doorbell.

Leading them was the Sterling Group’s head of legal, Garrison, a man in his forties with gold-rimmed glasses.

He had two assistants with him.

They spread a thick stack of documents across my coffee table.

Garrison uncapped his pen. “Mr. Sterling, let’s go over your asset list and the chain of evidence.”

“Assets?”

“The trust fund in your father’s name, your personal shares in three companies, and your executive position at the headquarters―Sienna doesn't know about any of this, right?”

“Right.”

“Good.” He drew a line on a notepad. “We’ll secure the assets first, then the evidence. We can’t mess up the order.”

He pulled a folder from his briefcase.

“Your father wanted me to give this to you.”

I opened it. Two pages.

The first was an appointment letter for Vice President of Sterling Group. The department was blank, but his signature and the corporate seal were at the bottom.

The second page had only one line.

“Three years. That’s enough.”

My father wrote that.