Chapter 2 - THE DIGITAL FOOTPRINT
The penthouse was suffocatingly quiet when Daniel Reyes finally returned at 2:00 a.m. The engagement gala had ended in shattered glass and broken trust, but the nightmare was only just beginning.
Daniel stood in the center of his expansive, glass-walled living room, loosening his silk tie. His CFO’s words still rang in his ears: The Harbor Commons internal memo was leaked from your home network, Daniel. At 11:42 p.m. last Thursday.
Thursday. Daniel had been in Chicago on a site tour. Only three people had been in the penthouse that night: Isabella, his five-year-old daughter Mia, and Rosa, the household manager who had been with him since his divorce.
He walked down the dim hallway toward his secure home office. The heavy oak door required a biometric thumbprint. He pressed his thumb against the scanner. The light flashed green. The door clicked open.
Inside, the room smelled of old leather and the faint, lingering scent of lavender—Rosa’s signature cleaning spray.
Daniel booted up his terminal and pulled up the security logs his tech team had forwarded. The login credentials used to download the file were his own. But the IP address routed back to a device on the secondary guest Wi-Fi network.
He cross-referenced the MAC address. His stomach dropped. It was an older generation tablet. Specifically, the tablet Daniel had given to Rosa’s three-year-old son, Tomas, to watch cartoons.
"No," Daniel whispered to the empty room. "Not Rosa."
Rosa had been a lifeline. When Daniel’s ex-wife walked out, leaving him with an infant, it was Rosa who had stayed up through the colicky nights. It was Rosa who taught Mia Spanish, who kept the household running while Daniel built his empire. To think she would steal a confidential document and leak it to his board of directors to force a $280 million merger? It made no sense. What would Rosa gain from the Harbor Commons deal?
He needed to check the physical space. Daniel knelt by his mahogany desk. He was a man who noticed the smallest structural flaws in massive skyscrapers; he rarely missed details in his own home.
He ran his hand under the edge of the desk. Dust. But as he pulled his hand back, his fingers brushed against something hard lodged between the desk and the baseboard.
Daniel reached down and pulled it free.
It was a small, silver charm bracelet. A delicate chain adorned with a single charm: a silver anchor.
It wasn't Rosa’s. Rosa didn't wear jewelry; she said it got in the way of cooking.
It was Isabella’s. He had bought it for her on a trip to Monaco.
Daniel’s jaw tightened. Isabella had been in this room. But why use Tomas’s tablet?
A soft creak from the hallway broke his concentration. Daniel stepped out of the office. The lights in the guest wing were on.
He walked quietly toward the glow, his heart pounding against his ribs. He pushed open the door to Rosa’s suite.
The room was in chaos. Drawers were pulled open. Clothes were piled on the bed. And standing in the center of the room, frantically shoving folded shirts into a canvas duffel bag, was Rosa.
Tears were streaming down her face. And in her trembling hand, she gripped a stack of printed papers holding the unmistakable Harbor Commons corporate letterhead.
"Rosa?" Daniel’s voice was dangerously low.
Rosa spun around, dropping the papers. They scattered across the hardwood floor.
"Mr. Reyes," she gasped, her hands shaking. "I... I can explain."
Daniel stepped into the room, his eyes locked on the leaked memo on the floor. "You’re packing. At two in the morning. With classified company documents in your hands."
Rosa backed up against the wall, pulling her robe tight around her. "You don't understand, Daniel. I have to leave. Before they come for Tomas."
Daniel froze. "Before who comes for Tomas?"
Rosa squeezed her eyes shut, sobbing into her hands. "I didn't leak the file. I swear on my son's life. But if I don't take the blame, they said they would take him away."
She pointed to the canvas bag on the bed. Tucked halfway inside was a heavy, manila envelope.
Daniel walked over and pulled the envelope open. Inside were dozens of high-resolution photographs. Pictures of Tomas playing in the park. Pictures of Tomas at his preschool. Pictures of Tomas sleeping in his bed, taken from inside the penthouse.
And at the bottom of the envelope, a single, handwritten note: The housekeeper takes the fall, or the boy takes a ride.
May you like
Daniel’s blood turned to ice. He turned over the envelope to check for a return address. There was none. But stamped in the bottom right corner of the paper, barely visible in the dim light, was a tiny, embossed logo.
The logo of Conrad Vaughn’s real estate firm.
