Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE PENTHOUSE
Three days later, I was living in a guest room inside the Prescott family's Manhattan penthouse.
I hated it.
Not because it wasn't beautiful.
Because it was.
Everything was perfect.
The sheets.
The view.
The marble bathroom.
The enormous windows overlooking Central Park.
It made my old life feel even smaller.
Henry insisted I stay there until the threats were identified.
Ethan claimed it was temporary.
I didn't believe him.
Neither did Henry.
“You're falling for her,” Henry said one evening.
I nearly dropped my fork.
Ethan glared at him.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Don't.”
Henry shrugged.
“I'm old. I'm allowed.”
I stared at my plate.
“I can hear you.”
“That was intentional.”
Ethan rubbed his forehead.
“You're impossible.”
Henry smiled.
Then his phone rang.
His expression changed.
He answered.
“What do you mean?”
A long silence.
Then:
“Send me the photograph.”
He hung up.
“What happened?” Ethan asked.
Henry showed him the phone.
It was a photograph of me.
Taken outside the penthouse.
I felt sick.
“How did they get that?”
Ethan stood.
“Security.”
A guard entered.
“Yes, sir?”
“Lock down the building.”
The guard nodded.
Then Ethan looked at me.
“Madison, I need you to tell me everything that happened the night before you met my father.”
“Why?”
“Because someone knew exactly where you would be.”
I thought.
“I was working.”
“Anyone unusual?”
I remembered.
“There was a man.”
Ethan waited.
“He ordered coffee.”
“What man?”
“I don't know.”
“What did he look like?”
“Mid-forties. Gray coat. Scar on his chin.”
Henry suddenly went rigid.
“Daniel.”
Ethan looked at him.
“You know him?”
Henry didn't answer.
“Dad.”
Henry finally whispered:
“Your uncle.”
The room went silent.
I stared at him.
“Your uncle?”
Ethan looked confused.
“My uncle died.”
“No.”
Henry shook his head.
“He disappeared.”
“When?”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“Why?”
Henry looked toward the window.
“Because I thought I killed him.”
My mouth fell open.
Ethan stared at his father.
“What are you talking about?”
Henry's hands trembled.
“Your uncle Daniel discovered what your grandfather had been doing.”
“What?”
“Money laundering. Political bribes. Shell companies.”
Ethan stepped closer.
“And you covered it up?”
“I tried to.”
Henry's voice cracked.
“Then Daniel threatened to expose everything.”
“What happened?”
“He vanished.”
“And you thought he was dead?”
“I believed he was.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The man outside the bakery.
The scar.
The gray coat.
“He's alive.”
Henry nodded.
“And he's coming back.”
That night, I couldn't sleep.
At 3:17 a.m., I heard footsteps outside my bedroom.
I sat up.
The door slowly opened.
“Ethan?”
No answer.
A figure entered.
I reached for the lamp.
The figure lunged.
I screamed.
A hand covered my mouth.
Then the lights came on.
Ethan stood behind the intruder.
Security guards dragged the man down.
I was shaking.
Ethan rushed to me.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He touched my shoulders.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
Then the intruder laughed.
“Your father lied to you.”
Ethan froze.
“What?”
The man looked directly at him.
“Daniel Prescott never disappeared.”
Henry appeared in the doorway.
The intruder smiled.
“He's been living under your nose for twenty-one years.”
Henry's face collapsed.
May you like
Then the man said something that made everyone silent.
“Ask your father who really killed your grandfather.”
