Chapter 2 - THE MORNING KEY
The digital clock on the microwave blinked 5:14 AM when the deadbolt finally retracted with a heavy, metallic clack.
I hadn’t slept a single second. I was sitting cross-legged on the cold linoleum, my back propped against the pantry island, wrapped in a thin tea towel to ward off the drafts whistling through the kitchen floor vents. Over the last six hours, I hadn’t prepped a solitary clove of garlic or seasoned a single strip of beef. Instead, my hands had been moving silently across my smartphone, downloading five years of joint bank statements, title deeds, wire transfers, and utility ledgers into Darcy’s encrypted cloud server.
When the kitchen door swung open, Julian stood framed in the threshold wearing his plush cashmere robe—a gift I had bought him for Christmas. His hair was ruffled, but his eyes were sharp and predatory.
“Look at you,” he said, his mouth curling into a smug sneer as he glanced at the spotless counters. “Five in the morning and you haven't even fired up the range. Did you honestly think I was bluffing, Sloan? If you think you can stall until noon and beg for mercy in front of my family, you’re dead wrong.”
I slowly pushed myself up from the floor, letting my knees tremble visibly. I deliberately kept my gaze pinned to his slippers, adopting the posture of a dog that had spent the night in the rain.
“I wasn’t stalling, Julian,” I whispered, making my voice sound brittle and hoarse. “I took inventory. You asked for sixty authentic heritage dishes. Fiona wants braised quail, saffron risotto, standing rib roasts, imported black truffles, French pastries. We don’t have those ingredients here. The specialty markets in West Loop open at six. If I don’t leave now with the SUV, there won’t be a feast. There won’t even be a starter.”
Julian crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He stepped into the kitchen, his leather slippers scuffing the tiles, sniffing the air as if looking for defiance. “You expect me to let you drive off? How do I know you won’t just run crying to your sister?”
“My phone is almost dead,” I said, pulling it out and showing him the low-battery icon I had rigged by running high-drain apps all night. “And your mother’s birthday card is already sitting on the counter. Julian, please. If I fail, you kick me out. You made the terms clear. Let me go get the ingredients so your mother gets the party she deserves.”
He looked at my red-rimmed eyes, my disheveled hair, and the empty prep bowls neatly stacked on the island. In his mind, he had won. He believed he had finally bent me into total submission.
“Take the Audi,” Julian said coldly, tossing my car keys onto the counter. “If you’re not back by eight sharp with every single ingredient on that list, don’t bother putting your key in the lock. I will have the maintenance crew change the cylinder before the first guest arrives.”
“Eight o'clock,” I echoed softly.
May you like
I grabbed my coat, slipped my boots over my ice-cold feet, and picked up my purse containing my secret debit card. I walked out of the kitchen, through the penthouse foyer, and didn’t look back once. As the elevator doors slid shut, sealing me off from the 42nd floor, I didn’t turn toward the grocery markets.
I steered the Audi straight toward Darcy’s high-rise office on Michigan Avenue, watching the sunrise bleed crimson across Lake Michigan. My phone buzzed with an incoming text from Darcy: The forensic accountant found the secondary offshore transfers. Julian didn’t just spend your money, Sloan. He committed grand larceny.
