Chapter 3 - The Silver Watch
The silver pocket watch felt heavy in Nathan’s palm.
It had belonged to his grandfather, a man who built custom furniture with his bare hands. Nathan had kept it locked in the digital wall safe hidden behind a painting in his corner office.
A safe that only he knew the combination to.
Or so he had thought.
Nathan stared at the watch, the polished silver reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights of the parking garage. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
Olivia hadn’t just packed his personal items. She had opened his private safe.
He flipped the watch open. The glass face was cracked, just as it had been for years, but the hands were frozen exactly at 6:52.
The exact minute he had walked into the kitchen that morning and called her dead weight.
“She was in the building today,” Nathan whispered, his voice echoing in the empty concrete structure.
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said, crossing his arms. “She was here all afternoon with a team of forensic accountants. Now, I have to ask you to leave the premises, or I’ll be forced to call the police.”
Nathan didn’t argue. The fight had been drained out of him.
He got back into his car, the leather steering wheel feeling foreign under his sweating palms. He had to go home. He had to talk to Olivia. If he could just get her face-to-face, he could charm his way out of this. He had done it a hundred times before when he messed up.
He drove to Clover Mill Drive, his mind racing with excuses and apologies.
The house was completely dark when he pulled into the driveway.
He grabbed his house keys and hurried to the front door. He slid the gold key into the lock and turned.
It didn’t catch.
He tried again, jiggling the handle. Nothing.
He shined his phone flashlight at the door knob. The brass fixture was brand new. There were faint sawdust shavings on the welcome mat.
The locks had been changed.
“Olivia!” Nathan shouted, pounding his fist against the heavy mahogany door. “Olivia, open the door! We need to talk!”
Silence.
He moved to the front window, cupping his hands over the glass to peer inside.
The living room was stripped bare.
The expensive Italian leather sofas, the modern art they had purchased in New York, the Persian rug—everything was gone. Only the stark white walls and the polished hardwood floors remained.
Panic clawed at Nathan’s throat. He ran around the side of the house to the backyard, hoping the patio door was unlocked.
As he rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The patio lights were on.
Sitting at the wrought-iron table, wearing a thick wool cardigan against the evening chill, was Margaret Holloway, Olivia’s ruthless divorce attorney.
She was drinking a cup of tea.
“Good evening, Nathan,” Margaret said mildly, not bothering to stand up.
“Where is my wife?” Nathan demanded, marching onto the patio.
“Your wife is finalizing a transition timeline for the properties,” Margaret replied, gesturing to a stack of manila folders on the table. “And you are currently trespassing on property owned by the Carter Heritage Trust. I suggest you lower your voice.”
“Carter Heritage? This is my house!”
“It was your house,” Margaret corrected, taking a sip of her tea. “Until you used it as collateral to secure a high-risk bridge loan six months ago. A loan you defaulted on last week.”
Nathan’s stomach plummeted.
He had taken that loan to cover the massive losses he incurred trying to outbid Marcus Vance. He thought he could flip a commercial lot and pay it back before Olivia ever noticed the lien on the house.
“How did she know about the loan?” Nathan asked, his voice shaking.
Margaret set her teacup down. She reached into one of the manila folders and pulled out a small piece of paper.
She slid it across the glass table.
It was a receipt from a local jeweler. A repair ticket for a silver pocket watch, dated eleven months ago.
“You left this receipt in your jacket pocket,” Margaret said softly. “Olivia took the jacket to the dry cleaners. She thought it was sweet that you were finally getting your grandfather’s watch fixed. So she went to the jeweler to pick it up for you as a surprise.”
Nathan stared at the receipt.
“But the jeweler didn’t have a watch,” Margaret continued, her eyes locking onto Nathan’s. “He had a pair of diamond earrings. Earrings you bought for a woman named Madison Cole.”
Nathan couldn’t breathe.
Eleven months.
“That’s when the forensic accounting started,” Margaret said. “Olivia didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She went to work. She untangled every single fraudulent loan, every hidden account, and every terrible business decision you made over the last five years.”
Margaret stood up, buttoning her blazer.
“She saved the company, Nathan. But she didn’t save you.”
Margaret handed him a thick envelope.
“These are your personal belongings from the master bathroom, and a key to a long-term stay motel near the airport. Paid for the next thirty days. After that, you are on your own.”
Nathan took the envelope, feeling utterly hollow.
“I want to see her,” he said, his voice breaking.
“She has nothing left to say to you,” Margaret replied.
Margaret turned and walked back into the empty house, locking the patio door behind her.
Nathan stood alone in the cold backyard. He looked down at the envelope in his hand.
He ripped it open.
Inside was a cheap plastic motel key.
May you like
But beneath it, folded in a piece of tissue paper, was something else.
It was a printed ultrasound photo.
