Chapter 4 - THE GHOST IN THE FRAME
The digital clock on the dashboard read 11:45 PM.
Jasmine sat in the back of the armored SUV, the rain lashing against the tinted windows. She hadn’t gone alone. She wasn't stupid. Following closely behind her were two discrete black sedans filled with Vance’s private security detail.
"Keep a two-block distance," Jasmine instructed the driver. "If things go wrong, you know the signal."
The old harbor was a graveyard of rusted shipping containers and broken streetlights. It smelled of salt and decaying wood. Jasmine stepped out into the freezing drizzle, pulling the collar of her trench coat up.
She walked toward Pier 9, her heels clicking softly against the wet concrete.
A figure stepped out from the shadow of a massive crane. It wasn't Sebastian. It wasn't Patricia or Monica.
It was Natasha.
The mistress looked nothing like the polished, arrogant woman from the gala. Her hair was plastered to her face, her mascara running in dark tracks down her cheeks. She was shivering, clutching a manila envelope to her chest.
"You actually came," Natasha whispered, her voice trembling.
"You said you had information," Jasmine replied, keeping a safe distance. "Speak. I don't have all night."
Natasha let out a bitter, broken laugh. "You destroyed him tonight. You destroyed me. But you don't even know the real game you're playing in."
"Enlighten me."
Natasha thrust the envelope forward. "Sebastian didn't marry you for your simplicity, Jasmine. He didn't marry you by accident."
Jasmine’s stomach tightened. "What are you talking about?"
"Look at the papers," Natasha spat. "I found them in his hidden safe after I tore the house apart looking for cash. He’s broke, Jasmine. He’s been broke since before he met you."
Jasmine opened the envelope. Inside were financial records dating back nine years. Bankruptcies. Foreclosures. And then, a private investigative report.
The subject of the report was Jasmine.
It was dated exactly one month before she met Sebastian.
"He knew," Jasmine breathed, the cold rain suddenly feeling like ice in her veins.
"He knew about your grandfather," Natasha confirmed, her voice dripping with spite. "His father worked for your grandfather as an accountant. His father embezzled millions, got caught, and faked his death to avoid prison. But before he vanished, he told Sebastian about the silent billionaire and the granddaughter who was meant to inherit it all."
Jasmine flipped through the pages. There were photos of her walking to the art studio. Transcripts of her grandfather’s will, stolen from Vance’s office years ago.
"Sebastian staged your first meeting," Natasha said, taking a step closer. "He endured you for eight years, waiting for the ten-year clause to expire so he could claim half of it in the divorce. He only started flaunting me because he thought he had finally secured the Southside investors and didn't need your grandfather's money anymore."
A wave of nausea washed over Jasmine. The abuse, the cruelty, the miscarriage... it wasn't just malicious. It was a calculated, agonizing wait for a payout.
"Why are you giving this to me?" Jasmine asked, looking up sharply. "You hate me."
"I do hate you," Natasha snarled. "But I hate him more. He left me holding forty million in debt. I want immunity. Forgive my portion of the loans, and I'll testify to everything. Fraud, embezzlement, emotional abuse. I'll bury him."
Jasmine looked at the desperate woman. For a moment, she felt a flicker of pity, but then she remembered Natasha laughing as Patricia called her barren.
"I'll forgive your debt," Jasmine said coldly. "On one condition."
"Anything."
"You go back to the house tonight. You pack your bags, and you tell Sebastian you're leaving him because he's worthless. You break his ego into a million pieces. Then, you leave the city and never come back."
Natasha swallowed hard, nodding. "Fine."
Jasmine turned to walk away, the envelope clutched tightly in her hand. But as she neared the SUV, her phone rang.
It was Monica.
Jasmine answered, expecting a barrage of insults. Instead, she heard violent sobbing.
"Jasmine! Please!" Monica screamed through the phone, the sound of breaking glass echoing in the background. "You have to help us! He’s gone crazy!"
"Who?" Jasmine demanded.
"Sebastian! He found out about the house! He’s tearing the walls apart, he’s screaming about a hidden trust!" Monica sobbed. "Jasmine, he locked Mom in the basement!"
Jasmine stopped dead in her tracks.
"I'm calling the police," Jasmine said.
"No! He said if the cops come, he’ll burn the house down with us inside!" Monica cried. "He keeps saying he needs the original deed to the Southside property! He thinks it’s hidden here!"
Jasmine’s eyes widened. The original deed.
Her grandfather had given it to her on her wedding day, disguised in a cheap, wooden frame holding a child’s drawing Jasmine had made for him when she was six. She had hung it in the hallway of Sebastian’s house, where it had sat, ignored, for eight years.
"Listen to me," Jasmine said, signaling her security team. "I'm coming."
She hung up and jumped into the SUV. "Change of plans," she told the driver. "We're going to my old house."
As the SUV tore through the wet streets, Jasmine pulled out the photograph of her grandfather and Sebastian’s father again. She zoomed in on the gold watch.
The time on the watch in the twenty-year-old photo was frozen at 11:45.
May you like
Jasmine’s blood ran cold.
Sebastian hadn't just inherited his father’s watch. He had inherited his father’s obsession. And now, cornered and broke, a monster with nothing left to lose was waiting for her in the dark.
