"I am Chloe Vance," I said, projecting an air of impatient authority I didn't feel. "My husband, Julian Vance, is expecting me in the penthouse. Unfortunately, I left my access card in my other handbag, and I am already late for a conference call."
The guard frowned, leaning over his keyboard. "Vance? I don't have a Vance listed for the penthouse, ma'am. The penthouse is leased to a corporate entity. APEX Consulting."
APEX Consulting. It had to be one of the dummy LLCs Julian created.
"Yes, APEX Consulting," I said smoothly, rolling my eyes as if I were utterly exhausted by his incompetence. "Julian operates the firm. Check your guest authorization. He should have added me this morning."
The guard clicked his mouse a few times. His brow furrowed. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Vance, I don't see any guest authorizations for today. I can try calling the suite for you."
Panic spiked in my chest. If he called up, and Isabella was already there, she would know I was tracking her. "No," I said quickly. "He's on a highly sensitive international call. Do not interrupt him. Look, I am his wife." I opened my wallet, pulling out a crisp hundred-dollar bill and sliding it through the small transaction slot in the glass. "Please. I am exhausted, and if I have to wait down here in this damp garage, my husband will have a long conversation with your building manager about hospitality."
The guard looked at the bill. He looked at my expensive clothes, my manicured hands, and my furious expression. With a quiet sigh, he slipped the bill into his pocket.
"The elevator on the far left," he said, handing me a generic white swipe card. "It only goes to the penthouse floor. Have a good evening, Mrs. Vance."
"Thank you," I breathed, taking the card.
I walked into the private elevator, swiped the card, and pressed the only button on the panel. The doors slid shut, sealing me in a quiet, high-speed ascent. My reflection in the polished brass doors looked ghostly. My dark hair was slightly damp from the rain, my eyes wide and shadowed with exhaustion.
The elevator slowed, coming to a gentle halt. The doors opened directly into a massive, sparsely furnished living room overlooking the Manhattan skyline.
The penthouse was eerily quiet. The floor-to-ceiling windows were battered by rain. The furniture was sleek, cold, and modern—glass tables, white leather sofas, minimalist art. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a staging ground.
I stepped out, my shoes making no sound on the thick white carpet. I crept through the massive living area, moving toward a hallway that seemed to lead to the master bedroom. The air smelled faintly of Isabella’s expensive gardenia perfume.
"Isabella?" I barely breathed the word.
No response. I checked the sprawling master bedroom. The bed was unmade. Two empty champagne flutes sat on the nightstand. A black silk slip—definitely Isabella’s—was thrown carelessly over the edge of a chair.
My stomach churned with a sickening mixture of betrayal and disgust. It wasn't just a financial conspiracy. Julian and Isabella were sleeping together. They were using this multi-million-dollar penthouse as a playground while plotting to steal my father's legacy and destroy my life.
But I didn't come here for evidence of infidelity. I came for the safe.
I moved swiftly into the massive walk-in closet. The walls were lined with custom cabinetry. I scanned the shelves, pushing aside racks of Julian's expensive suits. In the very back, concealed behind a panel of dark wood, I found it. A heavy, digital steel wall safe.
I stared at the keypad. I had absolutely no idea what the code was. Julian was meticulous about security. It wouldn't be his birthday, or our anniversary, or anything obvious.
I thought about the conversation I had overheard. Isabella said she was coming here to double-check the safe. If she was on her way, I had very little time.
I examined the keypad closely. It was a matte black touchscreen. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, angling it against the glass of the keypad. Under the glare of the light, I could see faint, oily smudge marks over four specific numbers: 0, 2, 7, and 9.
Four digits. That meant there were twenty-four possible combinations.
I started typing them in, my fingers trembling.
0-2-7-9. Error.
0-7-2-9. Error.
2-0-7-9. Error.
9-7-2-0. Error.
I paused, breathing heavily. What sequence would Julian use? What numbers mattered to him and Isabella?
Wait. The phrase.
The dust settles where it's told.
No, that didn't translate to numbers. What else? My mind raced back to the medical report. My father’s time of death was supposedly between 3:00 and 4:00 AM. But the watch had stopped at 11:42. Neither of those used the smudged numbers.