Chapter 3 - THE TICKET TO GENEVA
Brielle Rourke.
I stared at the name printed on the glossy first-class ticket, the letters blurring as my heart hammered against my ribs.
Gavin wasn't just having an affair. He wasn't just planning a romantic getaway. He was planning to flee the country with Brielle under a fraudulent marital name, abandoning his life in Raleigh entirely.
Answer one, open two. I knew where he was going, but why was he running? His logistics company was supposedly thriving. He was scheduled to announce a massive corporate expansion at his annual gala next week. Why buy one-way tickets to a country known for impenetrable banking secrecy?
I shoved the tickets into my coat pocket, grabbed my duffel bag, and walked downstairs.
Gavin and Brielle were still in the living room. Gavin poured himself a glass of bourbon, completely unbothered by my departure.
“You’ll be back,” Gavin called out, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Make sure you leave your house keys on the counter. Brielle is moving her things in tomorrow.”
I didn't answer. I walked out into the cold night air, climbed into my car, and drove.
I didn't go to a hotel. I drove straight to the private, gated estate of my father, Malcolm Wexler.
Despite the late hour, my father was awake in his oak-paneled study, reviewing financial reports. When I walked in, he looked up, his sharp blue eyes immediately registering the tension in my posture. Then, he saw the faint bruise beginning to form on my collarbone from where the belt had struck me.
My father stood up. The billionaire investor, known for his ruthless calm, looked absolutely terrifying in that moment.
“Who did this to you?” my father asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
“Gavin,” I whispered, the exhaustion finally breaking my voice.
I sat in the leather chair across from his desk and told him everything. I told him about Brielle, the public humiliations, the physical abuse, and the sapphire bracelet.
My father didn't shout. He didn't break anything. He simply walked over to his heavy steel safe, unlocked it, and pulled out a thick, red leather ledger.
“I knew Gavin was mismanaging the logistics firm,” my father said quietly, placing the ledger on the desk. “But I didn't intervene because I thought he was just arrogant and incompetent. I didn't know he was hurting you.”
He opened the ledger. “Three weeks ago, Gavin filed a legal motion to sever the Wexler Family Trust's control over the company. He claimed the trust was acting in bad faith and restricting his growth.”
I frowned. “He can't do that. The trust owns the physical assets.”
“He can if he proves the trust is insolvent,” my father replied. “Which brings me to this.”
My father reached into his pocket and placed a heavy, solid gold pocket watch on the desk.
I gasped. It was Gavin’s grandfather’s watch—the only heirloom he had ever truly cared about. He used to polish it every Sunday.
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“Why do you have his watch?” I asked.
“Because Gavin surrendered it to a private loan shark last month as collateral,” my father said grimly. “My security team intercepted it. Gavin has been borrowing millions in unregulated cash. He isn't expanding the company, Elena. He’s draining it.”
