Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the Office
By 8:00 PM that evening, the Prescott-Dalton estate was quiet, but it was the silence of a battleground between engagements.
Savannah had spent four hours upstairs in Emma’s bedroom. She had bathed her daughter, cooked her a quiet dinner of mac and cheese in the small kitchen upstairs, and read three of her favorite storybooks until Emma’s fragile, exhausted breathing finally evened out into deep sleep.
Before dropping off, Emma had clutched Savannah’s thumb with tiny, fierce fingers, whispering, "Don't go back to Chicago, Mommy. Please stay."
"I'm never leaving you again, baby," Savannah had promised, kissing her forehead. "I'm right here."
Once she was certain Emma was sound asleep, Savannah softly closed the bedroom door and walked down the dimly lit second-floor hallway toward Trevor’s private study—the room that had once belonged to her father, Arthur Prescott.
The heavy mahogany door was unlocked. A thin beam of light spilled out onto the hardwood floor.
Savannah pushed the door open. Trevor was gone. His car had left the driveway an hour ago without a word, his departure marked only by the heavy roar of his sports car engine echoing down the tree-lined driveway.
Savannah stepped inside the study. The air smelt of expensive bourbon and tobacco.
Her father's classic brass desk lamp was turned on, casting an amber glow over a scatter of financial documents left on the blotter.
Savannah walked behind the desk, her executive instincts taking over from her grief. Something wasn't right. The hostility Trevor had displayed earlier wasn't just the anger of a husband caught in an embarrassing situation—it was the desperation of a man backed into a corner.
She began reviewing the loose papers on the desk.
They were internal audit reports for Prescott Holdings' flagship asset: the Cumberland Valley Development Project—a fifty-million-dollar commercial initiative that Savannah had personally secured three years ago.
As Savannah flipped through the balance sheets, her stomach churned.
The figures didn't match the quarterly reports Trevor had emailed her while she was in Chicago. According to these physical documents, over four million dollars had been reallocated from the project’s escrow accounts over the last four months, funneled into an offshore shell company registered in Nevis under the name Hartwell & Associates Management.
Savannah dropped the papers back onto the desk, her hand trembling slightly.
Hartwell & Associates.
Vanessa hadn't just been hired as a consultant. Trevor had been systematically draining Savannah’s corporate inheritance, transferring capital directly into entities controlled by his mistress under the guise of "consulting fees" and "international management restructuring."
Suddenly, a quiet, metallic click echoed from the corner of the room.
Savannah jumped, her head snapping toward the built-in mahogany bookshelves lined with her father's leather-bound legal volumes.
Near the bottom shelf, behind a set of brass bookends, a small blue LED light was blinking rhythmically.
Savannah crossed the room, dropped to her knees, and pulled aside the heavy books.
Tucked neatly into the dark corner of the cabinet was a high-end, voice-activated digital recording device, wired directly into a small secondary battery pack. It was equipped with a high-gain directional microphone aimed directly at the desk and the leather armchairs.
Savannah’s breath hitched in her throat.
She didn't put it there. And given Trevor’s careless nature with technology, he wouldn't have known how to install such a sophisticated piece of surveillance equipment.
This was Vanessa’s work.
Vanessa had been recording Trevor’s private conversations, keeping tabs on his movements, and securing leverage over him in his own office.
Savannah reached out with gloved fingers—careful not to leave prints—and pulled the device out. It had a micro-SD card inserted into its side port.
Just as Savannah slid the card out and slipped it into her pocket, the heavy front door downstairs slammed shut, followed by the sound of heavy, unsteady footsteps echoing up the marble staircase.
Trevor was back.
Savannah quickly shoved the recording device back behind the books, straightened her clothes, and stood in front of the desk just as Trevor pushed open the study door.
He looked disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, his tie loosened around his collar. He held a glass of whiskey in his right hand. He stopped in the doorway, narrowing his eyes at her.
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"What are you doing in my office, Savannah?" Trevor demanded, slurring his words slightly.
"Looking for the truth, Trevor," Savannah said, her voice terrifyingly calm as she rested her hand over the pocket containing the micro-SD card. "And I think I’m getting very close to finding it."
