Chapter 2
It was finally my father who lost it and kicked everyone out.
Tears finally fell from my eyes. My mother was frantic, making call after call to relatives. and friends, trying to get Alan Simpson out and ask him what happened.
After all, without confirmation from the person involved, this could just be rumors.
But I had already gone numb. I changed my clothes, took a shower, and sat on the window seat drinking wine.
My mother had a bad heart, so I told them to go back and rest, that we’d talk about it
tomorrow.
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Staring out at the bustling lights below, my heart ached with a bitter, unbearable pain.
Alan Simpson and I had always been on the more conservative side. From the beginning of our relationship, he told me he didn’t believe in premarital sex. So, our physical intimacy had always been limited to kissing.
It wasn’t until today that I realized it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, but because all his energy had been spent elsewhere.
I took a sip of red wine, swallowing it along with my tears.
The phone rang–it was the police station, asking me to come in tomorrow to sign some papers. Just as I was zoning out, a message popped up.
I opened it to find a strange number, telling
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me to send a hundred thousand to the displayed bank account and vacate the house by tomorrow afternoon, so she could move in and “take care of her pregnancy.”
I didn’t have to think hard to know it was
Alice Mitchell’s number.
I dialed the number back, and her lazy voice picked up.
“What the hell! Why are you calling so late? Are you disturbing the peace? Don’t you know pregnant women need to rest?”
“Go to hell! I’ll mess with your ancestors up to the eighteenth generation!”
“Alice Mitchell, are you out of your mind? This house was bought after Alan Simpson and I got married–it’s joint property. Do you get it? This is MY house!”
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“And, by the way, the child you’re carrying isn’t even mine. I have no obligation to take care of you!”
I heard something crash on her end of the line, and it was clear Alice Mitchell was fuming.
“Clara Walker, don’t be ungrateful. You’ll regret this!”
I hung up, finishing off the whole bottle of red wine. My head was spinning, and I staggered to the bedroom to collapse into bed.
At the first light of dawn, I was jolted awake by the ringing of my phone.
The man on the other end had a cold, deep voice, instructing me to go to Alan Simpson’s
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company immediately.
I hurried to the building. Since it was Monday, the elevator was packed with people.
I checked my watch–there was no time to waste.
The CEO’s private elevator was empty in the corner, and I took the opportunity to slip inside.
I was on marital leave, but I still had to go to the police station to sign some papers. I had so many questions for Alan Simpson and didn’t want to waste any more time.
Just as the elevator door was about to close, a pair of long, slender hands pried it open.
The man was sharply dressed in a suit,
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his gaze intense and unsettling, but his handsome face still radiated a captivating
aura.
He sized me up before speaking, his tone indifferent.
“Which floor are you going to?”
I moved awkwardly to the corner, swallowing nervously.
The man’s presence was so overwhelming, it made it hard for me to breathe.
“Top floor.”
He pressed the button for the floor, hands in his pockets, standing silently beside me.
My eyes flickered nervously. I felt like I should say something to ease the tension.
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“This elevator is really bright,” I said, almost cringing at my own words.
“Do you work here?” I tried again.
Clara Walker, really? Do you even hear yourself?
I held my forehead in frustration.
Finally, the man’s gaze shifted toward me. His eyes were dark and intense, as though they could drown me.
My heart raced, and I instinctively shrank deeper into the corner, clutching my purse tightly.
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“You’re Clara Walker, aren’t you?”
Suddenly, the man spoke.
I looked at him in confusion, silently nodding.
He smiled, and suddenly with a “ding,” the elevator door opened. Without a backward glance, the man stepped out.
I was led by the secretary to the meeting room, where she courteously pushed a file in front of me.
It listed the company’s various losses caused by Alan Simpson’s embezzlement. The project had been halted, resulting in a loss of fifty million dollars.
My face flushed crimson, and even
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my hands holding the file trembled uncontrollably.
Such a large sum–selling off everything, even the house and car–would never cover it.
“Miss Walker,” the secretary said sweetly, “while this is your husband’s personal action, our company has already filed a lawsuit against him.”
“But your husband’s personal account only has a balance of twenty thousand dollars. The embezzled funds have completely vanished, and since you two are legally married, now that your husband is unable to repay, it naturally falls upon you.”
Her voice was sweet, but it sent a cold sweat down my spine.
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I shakily set the file down.
“Could there be a mistake? My husband isn’t like that.”
As if anticipating my response, the secretary pulled out another document and handed it
to me.
“We are a large company. We would never take our projects lightly.”
“We’ve thoroughly investigated your husband’s accounts and bills. Every
month, a sum of money is transferred to an overseas account, and the spending on this account is substantial.”
The secretary paused, her smile tinged with sympathy.
“This account consistently spends large
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sums on luxury goods, everyweek, without a cent left.”
The image of Alice Mitchell, drappedhin designer brands, flashed in my minitch and I felt a wave of dizziness.
Alan Simpson had not only been usining our money to support his mistress, but he had also dared to embezzle company fundsls for his affair. No wonder he had rushed doo propose to me three months ago, withoutt even buying a wedding ring.
He must have planned to drag me down withh him to fill his own hole.
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