Chapter 3 - THE SILVER LOCKET
I stared at the black ink on the termination agreement.
It was a perfect forgery. The loop of the 'B'. The sharp, jagged line of the 'V'. It was the exact signature I used to authorize multi-million-dollar acquisitions.
“I never signed this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper in the quiet exam room.
Violet looked away, wiping a tear from her cheek. “It was on your personal company letterhead, Beckett. Delivered by your private courier. What was I supposed to think? You told me the day before that a child would ruin your life.”
“Violet, look at me.”
I stepped forward, completely ignoring the doctor. I dropped the file onto the counter and knelt in front of her.
“I am a ruthless man in business. I am difficult. I am obsessed with control,” I said, looking deeply into her emerald eyes. “But I would never, under any circumstances, put a price tag on our child.”
She searched my face. She knew me better than anyone in the world. She knew my tells, my walls, my absolute inability to lie to her.
Slowly, her shoulders dropped.
“If you didn't sign it,” Violet whispered, holding Celeste a little tighter, “who did?”
“There’s only one man who has legal power of attorney to use my signature stamp for confidential company matters,” I said, a cold, lethal fury building in my chest.
Marcus Sterling.
The man who had mentored me. The man who stood by my side when my father died.
“We are leaving,” I said, standing up. “You are coming home with me. To the penthouse. It has twenty-four-hour security.”
“Beckett, I have an apartment—”
“You have a five-week-old daughter who was targeted before she was even born,” I interrupted, my voice leaving no room for argument. “You are coming home.”
Violet didn't fight me.
Within an hour, we were in the back of my armored town car. Celeste was asleep in her car seat.
As we drove through the city, I noticed something missing.
When Violet lived with me, she always wore a heavy silver locket. It belonged to her late grandmother. It was the only piece of family she had left.
Her neck was bare.
“Where is your locket?” I asked.
Violet looked out the window. “I sold it.”
My jaw clenched. “Why?”
“Because the day I left, my personal bank accounts were frozen. Someone flagged my social security number for identity theft,” she said bitterly. “I couldn't rent an apartment. I couldn't pay for prenatal care. When Celeste came early, the NICU bills were terrifying. I had to sell it to a pawn shop on 4th Street to pay the hospital.”
Marcus hadn't just forged my signature. He had systematically destroyed her ability to survive.
I pulled out my phone and sent a single text to my head of security: Find the locket at 4th Street Pawn. Pay whatever it takes.
When the elevator doors opened into my penthouse, the silence of the massive apartment felt entirely different. It wasn't empty anymore.
Violet carried the car seat into the living room and set it gently on the rug.
As she unzipped the side pocket of her diaper bag to get a bottle, something heavy fell out and clattered onto the hardwood floor.
I looked down.
It was a heavy, antique brass key.
I recognized it instantly.
“Violet,” I said, my voice dropping. “Where did you get that key?”
She looked down, confused. “It came in a blank envelope the day I left you. There was a note attached that said it was the only way to keep us safe.”
I picked up the key.
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It was the master key to my father’s private safety deposit box at the First National Bank.
A box I had been told was destroyed in a fire ten years ago.
