Chapter 4 - Twenty Years of Loyalty
Daniel stared at the succession agreement as if he had never seen his own name before.
“That isn’t real.”
Vincent sat perfectly still.
I had learned that his anger had levels.
Raised voice meant irritation.
Silence meant somebody should worry.
“Explain it,” Vincent said.
Daniel looked up.
“I can’t explain something I didn’t sign.”
“Your signature is there.”
“So is yours, and you just said yours is forged.”
Marcus closed the study doors.
Daniel noticed.
“Seriously?”
Vincent didn’t answer.
Daniel looked at me.
“This is what happens when an outsider walks into a house and convinces everyone they’re surrounded by enemies.”
“Don’t blame the nurse,” Vincent said.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Daniel turned back to him.
“You’ve known her six days.”
“I’ve known you twenty years.”
“Exactly.”
“And somehow that isn’t making me feel better.”
Daniel’s face tightened.
I picked up the document with gloved hands.
“Who prepared the original succession plan?”
Daniel answered reluctantly.
“I did.”
“Who had access?”
“My staff. Vincent. Marcus had copies of some security provisions.”
“Dr. Bell?”
“No.”
“Could somebody alter it?”
“Not without access to my document system.”
Marcus crossed his arms.
“The same legal office network used to access Howard’s prescription account?”
Daniel looked furious.
“You’re trying to build a case backward.”
“No,” I said. “We’re following records.”
His eyes moved to my notebook.
“You write down everything, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That must make life exhausting.”
“It makes lying around me exhausting.”
Vincent looked away.
I could have sworn he was hiding another smile.
But the situation wasn’t funny.
The forged deed changed everything.
This wasn’t merely poisoning.
Someone was building a legal pathway around Vincent’s death.
If he died suddenly, questions would follow.
If he deteriorated slowly, developed arrhythmias, weakness, confusion, and eventually became medically incompetent, paperwork could move quietly.
Companies could transfer.
Assets could shift.
Control could change hands.
And everyone might call it tragedy.
The perfect crime wasn’t the one nobody noticed.
It was the one everybody misunderstood.
Marcus had the documents examined.
The signatures were sophisticated forgeries.
The paper, however, came from Vincent’s own legal office.
So did the notary seal.
The supposed witness was a former Vale employee who had died eight months earlier.
That detail bothered me most.
Whoever created the documents had planned carefully enough to use a witness who couldn’t contradict them.
Vincent ordered Daniel’s access to the estate restricted.
Daniel exploded.
“You think I did this?”
“I think someone did.”
“And suddenly twenty years means nothing?”
Vincent’s jaw flexed.
“Twenty years means I’m giving you the opportunity to walk out that door instead of having Marcus drag you through it.”
Daniel stared at him.
Then at me.
“This house worked fine before she arrived.”
I couldn’t help myself.
“Except for the poisoning.”
He left.
The door slammed behind him.
Vincent stood by the fireplace long after he was gone.
I quietly checked his pulse.
He looked down at my fingers.
I started to pull away.
His hand closed around mine.
“Leave it.”
It was the first time he had asked me not to stop touching him.
My throat tightened.
His pulse was fast.
“Stress,” I said.
“I’m fine.”
“Your heart disagrees.”
“My heart has terrible judgment.”
I looked at him.
For one strange second, neither of us was talking about his pulse.
Then Marcus returned, and Vincent released my hand.
The investigation widened.
We discovered the medication deliveries had been rerouted three months earlier.
Dr. Bell’s usual pharmacy had received cancellation notices.
Howard insisted he had never sent them.
A private courier service began delivering replacements.
The authorization came through Vale Legal.
Daniel’s department.
But the digital signature belonged to one of Daniel’s junior attorneys.
That attorney had disappeared two weeks earlier.
His apartment was empty.
His bank account contained a recent deposit of eighty thousand dollars.
Vincent wanted him found.
Marcus promised he would be.
I cared about something more immediate.
Vincent’s body was recovering.
The tremors decreased.
His color improved.
The swelling faded.
His appetite returned so aggressively that on the ninth morning I found him stealing bacon from the breakfast tray before I had finished checking the packaging.
I slapped his hand.
The room froze.
So did I.
Vincent looked at my fingers.
Marcus looked ready to resign on my behalf.
I slowly raised both hands.
“That was reflex.”
Vincent stared at me.
Then he picked up the bacon.
“You just hit me.”
“I medically redirected you.”
Marcus turned away, shoulders shaking.
Vincent bit into the bacon.
“You’re fired.”
“No, I’m not.”
“No?”
“You’d miss me.”
He chewed slowly.
“Arrogant.”
“Says the mafia boss eating contraband bacon.”
Marcus made a choking sound.
Vincent pointed at the door.
“Get out, Marcus.”
“Yes, sir.”
He escaped before laughing.
I smiled despite myself.
Vincent saw it.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
His expression softened.
For the first time, he didn’t look like Vincent Vale, feared crime boss.
He looked like a tired man who had almost died and had forgotten what ordinary conversation felt like.
That scared me more than his guards ever had.
Because I was beginning to care.
Not professionally.
Personally.
And I knew better.
Three nights later, I woke to someone inside my room.
I lived in a guest suite on the mansion’s second floor because Vincent still required round-the-clock monitoring.
The clock read 2:17 a.m.
A shadow moved near my desk.
I stayed still.
My notebook.
Someone was reaching for my notebook.
I switched on the lamp.
The figure ran.
I shouted.
Marcus’s guards arrived seconds later.
The intruder escaped through the service corridor.
Nothing had been taken.
Except one page.
The page containing the chain-of-custody information for Vincent’s original blood samples.
Vincent appeared barefoot in the hallway wearing black sweatpants and a T-shirt.
“What happened?”
“Someone searched my room.”
His face changed.
“You’re leaving.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“Good, because the answer is still no.”
“Megan.”
“They took a page.”
“I don’t care about the page.”
“I do.”
“I care that somebody entered your bedroom.”
His anger startled me.
Not because it was frightening.
Because it was fear.
For me.
“I’m okay.”
“This isn’t a hospital.”
“I noticed the armed men.”
“This is my world.”
“And somebody in your world tried to kill you.”
He stepped closer.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
His voice lowered.
“People near me get hurt.”
I held his gaze.
“So you keep everyone far enough away that losing them doesn’t matter?”
He didn’t answer.
There it was.
The real rule.
Nobody touches Vincent Vale.
Not his body.
Not his heart.
Not anything he couldn’t afford to lose.
I said quietly, “That’s not living.”
His expression hardened.
“You think because you saved my life, you understand me?”
“No.”
“Then stop trying.”
He walked away.
It hurt more than it should have.
The next morning, we barely spoke.
I performed my assessment.
He answered with one-word responses.
Marcus noticed.
Marcus noticed everything.
By afternoon, Dr. Bell arrived carrying boxes of records.
He looked exhausted.
“I found something.”
He placed an old medical file in front of me.
“Vincent had a blood test six months ago.”
Vincent looked up.
“I don’t remember that.”
“You had abdominal pain after a charity dinner. I ran a broad metabolic panel.”
Howard handed me the report.
A trace abnormality.
Not enough to diagnose poisoning.
Enough to matter now.
The exposure had started at least six months earlier.
That changed the timeline.
The forged deed was dated five months ago.
The succession agreement four months ago.
The medication switch three months ago.
This had been planned in stages.
First weaken him.
Then build documentation of declining health.
Then control his medicine.
Then create legal authority.
Then—
“What happens next?” Vincent asked.
I looked at the timeline.
“If the plan stayed on schedule?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t want to say it.
Marcus did.
“You die.”
Silence.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Megan Carter?”
“Yes.”
A man whispered, “I know who stole Vincent Vale’s blood.”
I stood.
“Who is this?”
“You’ve been looking for me.”
My eyes went to Marcus.
“The attorney?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Daniel’s missing junior attorney.
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then tell me who paid you.”
Breathing.
Fast.
Terrified.
Then he whispered one name.
May you like
“Daniel.”
The line went dead.
