Chapter 3 - THE ANCHOR PIN
The air inside the old carriage house smelled of aged cedar, damp earth, and expensive French perfume.
Elias didn't turn on the overhead lights. He pushed open the heavy wooden door with a single shove, stepping into the cavernous room where old Victorian furniture and rolled Persian rugs sat shrouded in white dust sheets. Delphine slipped in right behind him like a shadow, her heart racing as she pointed toward the far corner, near a tall arched window that looked out over the dark river bend.
“There,” Delphine whispered. “On the walnut writing desk.”
Elias walked silently across the wooden floorboards, his footsteps making no sound. Resting on the polished surface of the desk was a small, open leather folio. Beside it sat a heavy crystal decanter of scotch and a small, silver lapel pin shaped like a ship’s anchor—the exact insignia Delphine had described.
Elias reached down, picked up the pin, and turned it over in his palm. A tiny serial number was engraved along the back edge: HRP-042.
“Hion Ridge Partners,” Elias murmured, his voice dropping into a register so cold it made the hair on Delphine’s arms stand up.
“She’s not just meeting someone,” Delphine said, stepping closer to the desk. She pointed to a single sheet of paper lying beside the folio. “Look at the bottom of that document, Mr. Ferraro. That’s a corporate merger agreement. It grants shared voting rights over the Port of New Orleans shipping lanes to an outside entity upon the death—or legal incapacitation—of the primary shareholder.”
Elias snatched the paper up. His eyes scanned the legal jargon with terrifying speed. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek.
“It requires a spouse’s co-signature,” Elias read aloud, his voice strained. “To bypass federal maritime oversight during a family acquisition.”
“And who is the primary shareholder?” Delphine asked quietly.
“Me,” Elias whispered. He looked up from the paper, his dark eyes fixing on Delphine with a sudden, searing intensity. “If I die or become mentally incapacitated after marrying her, Camille doesn't just inherit my estate. She inherits the entire Port. Hion Ridge takes over everything my grandfather built.”
Suddenly, the heavy oak door of the carriage house creaked open.
Footsteps—light, hurried, and clicking sharply against the stone threshold—echoed from the entrance.
“Elias?” Camille’s voice rang out, sounding breathless and slightly panicked. “Elias, what are you doing out here in the dark? The guests are looking for—omigod.”
Camille stopped dead in her tracks just inside the doorway.
The amber light from the courtyard spilled across the floor, illuminating Elias standing by the desk with the corporate agreement in his hand—and Delphine standing right beside him in her faded gray maid's uniform.
For a long moment, nobody breathed.
Camille’s face drained of every trace of color. Her eyes darted from the document in Elias’s hand to Delphine, and the polite, sweet facade she had worn all evening completely disintegrated, replaced by a cold, calculating fury.
“You,” Camille hissed, her voice losing all its melodic warmth. She pointed a trembling, manicured finger straight at Delphine. “You filthy little spy. You’ve been going through things that don’t belong to you.”
“I clean rooms, Miss Ashford,” Delphine said, her voice steady as she stepped out from the shadows. “And sometimes, when people leave their garbage lying around under lamps, it ends up in the light.”
Camille spun toward Elias, her eyes filling with instant, theatrical tears. Her voice shifted back to pleading vulnerability. “Elias, don't listen to her! She’s lying! She’s a disgruntled employee—she probably planted that paper here herself to ruin our wedding!”
Elias slowly lowered the document. He walked toward Camille step by step, his large frame blocking any path to the exit. He didn't shout. He didn't threaten.
“Plant it, Camille?” Elias asked softly, stopping two feet away from her. He held up the silver lapel pin. “Did she plant HRP-042 here too? Did she forge your signature on the communication logs with Robert Vance from Hion Ridge?”
Camille’s breath caught. The name Robert Vance slipped into the room like a physical blow.
May you like
“Vance...” Delphine muttered under her breath, a cold memory suddenly flooding her mind.
Because Robert Vance wasn't just a corporate executive. He was the exact same man whose signature was printed at the bottom of the loan document resting inside the tin box beneath Delphine’s bed—the very loan that had destroyed her husband Aaron’s life fourteen years ago.
