Chapter 1: The Woman They Came to Kill
“Take me! Just let her go!””
My voice tore through the smoky living room as I spread my arms in front of the woman standing behind me.
A red laser crawled across the expensive marble floor, climbed the side of a leather sofa, and finally stopped against my dark blue shirt.
I couldn't see the men holding the weapons.
I could only hear their breathing.
Then a cold voice emerged from somewhere near the staircase.
“We don't want you, Darius.””
My stomach tightened.
The laser moved.
Slowly, deliberately, it slipped away from my chest and settled against the beige dress of the woman behind me.
She stopped breathing.
I felt her fingers clutch the back of my shirt.
“Please,” I whispered.
“Whatever my wife promised you, I'll double it. Just don't touch her.””
A quiet laugh came from the darkness.
“Your wife already made a new deal, Darius. You keep the money, and we eliminate the mistress.””
The woman behind me took one unsteady step backward.
Then she whispered a single word.
“Mistress?!””
I couldn't look at her.
Because the men in my house had just said something I had spent three months desperately trying to keep from becoming public.
And because the woman they had come to kill wasn't supposed to be in my house tonight.
Her name was Vanessa Cole.
And she was supposed to be dead.
Forty-eight hours earlier, I had been standing in the kitchen of my $2.8 million home in Buckhead, Atlanta, watching my wife pour two glasses of champagne.
The house looked perfect.
Tall windows overlooked the landscaped backyard. A crystal chandelier hung above the dining table. Fresh white roses sat in a silver vase, and soft jazz played through the ceiling speakers.
Everything looked like the life I had worked fifteen years to build.
My wife, Camille, stood beside the kitchen island wearing a black silk dress.
She was beautiful in the way expensive things were beautiful.
Every detail was carefully chosen.
Her diamond earrings. Her perfectly styled hair. Even the smile she gave me.
“Another successful quarter,” she said, handing me a glass.
I accepted it.
“Three new commercial contracts. Not bad for a company that started in my garage.””
Camille smiled.
“Your company,” she corrected.
I looked at her.
“What?””
“Nothing, baby. I said our company.””
She lifted her glass.
I clinked mine against it.
But something about her expression bothered me.
For eleven years, I had known every version of Camille's smile. The smile she wore when she was genuinely happy. The one she used when she wanted something. The one she gave strangers when she wanted them to believe we were the perfect couple.
Tonight, she was wearing the last one.
“Are you okay?”” I asked.
“I'm wonderful.””
“You seem distracted.””
She laughed softly.
“Darius, must I submit a report every time I have a quiet evening?””
I raised both hands.
“I'm just asking.””
She walked around the island and kissed my cheek.
Her perfume lingered after she moved away.
“I have a charity committee meeting tomorrow,” she said.
“Don't wait up.””
“Again?””
“It's important.””
“Of course.””
She picked up her purse.
Then her phone vibrated.
She glanced at the screen.
For half a second, the smile disappeared.
I noticed.
“Everything all right?””
“Work.””
She turned the phone facedown.
Then she kissed me again and walked toward the front door.
I watched her leave.
Her black heels clicked against the marble hallway.
The door closed.
And my phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number appeared.
*UNKNOWN:* Your wife isn't going to the charity meeting tomorrow.
I stared at it.
Another message arrived.
*UNKNOWN:* Ask her who Vanessa is.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
I typed a response.
*ME:* Who is this?
The message showed as delivered.
No reply.
I called the number.
It went straight to voicemail.
For several minutes, I stood alone in the kitchen, listening to the jazz music.
Then I did something I had never imagined doing in eleven years of marriage.
I checked my wife's phone records.
We shared a family account, and the billing portal was connected to my laptop.
I found the number immediately.
It appeared twenty-seven times in the previous two weeks.
Some calls lasted less than a minute.
Others lasted nearly an hour.
The latest call had been made twelve minutes before Camille left the house.
I copied the number into a search field.
The result wasn't a name.
It was a business registration.
*Cole Strategic Consulting.*
Vanessa Cole.
I had heard the name before.
Not from Camille.
From my business partner.
The following morning, I arrived at my company's downtown Atlanta office before eight.
My assistant, Renee, looked up from her desk.
“Morning, Mr. Hayes.””
“Is Marcus here?””
“He's in your conference room.””
“Did he come alone?””
Renee hesitated.
“Yes.””
I stopped.
“Why did you hesitate?””
She lowered her voice.
“He asked me yesterday whether you were planning to travel this weekend.””
My eyes narrowed.
“Did he say why?””
“No. But he seemed nervous.””
I nodded and walked toward the conference room.
Marcus Reed had been my closest friend since college.
We had built Hayes Development Group together. He had been my best man. He knew my bank accounts, my business passwords, and almost every secret I had.
He was sitting at the conference table when I entered.
A laptop was open in front of him.
“Darius!”” He stood.
“You're early.””
“Who is Vanessa Cole?””
His smile vanished.
It lasted only a second.
But I saw it.
“Why are you asking?””
“That's an interesting answer.””
Marcus closed his laptop.
“She's a consultant Camille hired.””
“For what?””
“Marketing.””
“Why would a marketing consultant call my wife twenty-seven times?””
Marcus rubbed his jaw.
“Maybe you should ask Camille.””
“I am asking you.””
He walked toward the coffee machine.
“Darius, you need to calm down.””
I followed him with my eyes.
“Did you know about her?””
He poured coffee into a paper cup.
“Look, man. Business is complicated.””
I laughed without humor.
“I'm talking about my marriage.””
Marcus turned around.
For the first time, he looked genuinely uncomfortable.
“Then maybe you should look at the financial records before you start accusing people.””
“What financial records?””
He didn't answer.
Instead, he picked up his coffee and left.
I stood in the conference room for several seconds.
Then I opened my laptop.
I searched our company's recent transactions.
At first, everything looked normal.
Payroll.
Construction expenses.
Insurance.
Contractor payments.
Then I noticed a transfer of $850,000.
It had been authorized through a secondary account I barely used.
The recipient was a company called CVC Holdings.
I opened the registration details.
The company had been incorporated six months earlier.
Its registered owner was Vanessa Cole.
My phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
*UNKNOWN:* Stop looking. They know you're investigating.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message came.
*UNKNOWN:* Your wife isn't the only person who signed the deal.
I felt the room become smaller.
Because the signature attached to the transfer authorization was mine.
Except I had never signed it.
That evening, Camille came home at 7:30.
I was sitting in the living room with the financial documents spread across the coffee table.
She stopped when she saw them.
“What is all this?””
I held up one page.
“Eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Does that number mean anything to you?””
She placed her purse on the console.
“Darius, I'm tired.””
“That's convenient.””
Her expression hardened.
“What are you suggesting?””
I pointed to the signature.
“Someone used my authorization to move company money into a business owned by Vanessa Cole.””
Camille stared at the page.
Then she looked at me.
“You went through my financial activity?””
“It's my company.””
“Your company?”” She gave a bitter laugh.
“That's what you still believe?””
I slowly stood.
“What does that mean?””
She walked toward the staircase.
“Ask Marcus.””
“I already did.””
She stopped.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she turned around.
“Darius, some things are better left alone.””
I felt coldness spread through my chest.
“Are you threatening me?””
“No.””
She picked up her purse again.
“I'm trying to protect you.””
“From whom?””
Her eyes moved toward the dark hallway.
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
“From the people who already know where you sleep.””
She walked upstairs.
I remained beside the coffee table.
And for the first time in eleven years, I wondered whether the woman sleeping beside me had ever loved me at all.
At 11:46 p.m., another message arrived.
This time, there was an attachment.
A photograph.
It showed Camille standing outside a hotel with Marcus.
His hand was resting on her waist.
But that wasn't what made my hands shake.
Standing a few feet behind them was Vanessa Cole.
And she was holding a photograph of me.
May you like
On the back of the photograph, someone had written six words.
*HE MUST NEVER FIND OUT WHO SHE IS.*
