I came home early that day, still carrying the polished grin I wore for investors and cameras.
The billionaire smile.
The one that said everything was under control.
Then I heard her.
Not calling my name.
Not laughing.
Crying.
No — not crying.
Wailing.
The sound of someone mourning a death.
It didn’t belong in our glass-and-steel mansion. It was too raw. Too human. Too desperate for a house built on quiet efficiency and private security.
I followed the sound to the kitchen.
Claire was on the floor.
Curled on the tiles.
Eight months pregnant.
Shaking.
Her hands were red.
Not a smear. Not a scratch.
Red enough to make the world tilt.
“Claire!” I dropped beside her.
She flinched.
“Don’t,” she whispered, recoiling like I was the threat.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
“Tell me it’s not ours,” I said, staring at the blood pooling between her fingers. “Tell me that’s not our baby.”
She lifted her face slowly.
Her eyes were swollen.
Empty.
“It happened… because of you.”
Everything inside me went still.
“What did you do?” I asked automatically, the words escaping before I could stop them.
She shook her head violently.
“No,” she sobbed. “What you signed.”
My brain scrambled. I sign documents daily. Contracts. Acquisitions. Mergers.
“Claire, I sign a hundred papers a week.”
She grabbed my wrist with startling strength.
“Two nights ago,” she said, her voice splintering. “You were in Miami. I was alone.”
A cold prickle crawled up my spine.
“Someone knocked.”
“We have security,” I insisted.
“They had credentials,” she said. “A badge. They used a name.”
“What name?”
Her lips trembled.
“Caldwell.”
My stomach dropped.
Caldwell Risk Management.
The firm my COO convinced me to retain after the whistleblower rumors started. The quiet problem-solvers. The people who made complications disappear.
“They said they were here to confirm compliance,” Claire whispered. “They asked about the safe. About your documents. I told them I didn’t know anything.”
I felt my pulse hammer in my ears.
“And then?”
Her gaze flicked toward the pantry door like the memory lived there.
“One of them smiled,” she said. “And told me you had already agreed. That I shouldn’t make it harder than it had to be.”
The doorbell rang.
Soft.
Measured.
Polite.
Like a neighbor dropping off cookies.
“Delivery for Mr. Tran,” a man’s voice called through the intercom.
Claire’s fingers dug into my arm.
“Don’t answer it,” she pleaded. “Please. That’s how it started.”
I stood slowly.
Every instinct screamed to ignore it.
But the voice outside wasn’t impatient.
It was calm.
Confident.
Like it knew I would come.
And that’s when I understood.
The blood on the floor wasn’t an accident.
It was leverage.
And whatever waited behind that door…
Wasn’t delivering a package.
It was collecting on a signature.
