I thought of Theresa—that razor-sharp mind, that stubborn tenacity in her, how she’d go to battle for both her kids and her dead husband’s company with the same fire. “Trust me. She is.”
Outside my head spun with everything I’d learned. Arthur hadn’t just seized an opportunity after Marco’s death—he’d been laying groundwork for over a year, positioning himself to steal and dismantle everything Marco and Theresa had built.
I needed to tell Theresa immediately. This couldn’t wait until morning.
The nearest pay phone was half a block away, outside a closed convenience store. I fed quarters into the slot with fingers that weren’t entirely steady—from the cold, from exhaustion, from the white-hot anger burning in my chest.
I dialed Theresa’s number from memory. The phone rang once before she answered.
“Patrick?” Her voice was instantly alert despite the hour, a thread of tension running through it.
“I got the report,” I said, my voice tight with controlled fury. “We need to meet. I’m in San Francisco.”
There was a brief pause on her end. I could almost hear her processing, making rapid calculations.
“The Ritz-Carlton,” she said. “Same as before. I can be there in forty minutes.”
My pulse quickened at her choice of location—the same hotel where we’d spent our first night together. The significance wasn’t lost on me.
“Theresa—” I started, wanting to warn her how bad it was, wanting to prepare her.
“Forty minutes,” she repeated, and hung up.
I gripped the phone, my eyes shifting to the damning evidence tucked inside my briefcase. Breaking this to Theresa wasn’t going to be pretty. Telling her Arthur had been plotting his takeover while Marco was still breathing, then kicked his scheme into overdrive the moment her husband’s body went cold.
I grabbed a taxi and told the driver to head for the Ritz-Carlton. Pretty or not, I knew in my gut Theresa wouldn’t want me sugar-coating anything—she’d demand the raw truth, however brutal it might be.
I arrived first, securing the same suite we’d shared weeks ago. The night manager seemed to recognize me as I approached the desk at 1 AM.
“Mr. McCrae,” he said, professional but curious. “Welcome back.”
I slid a folded hundred-dollar bill across the counter, catching his eye. “My wife will be joining me shortly. When she arrives, please give her a key and send her up.”
He palmed the bill, his expression smoothing into neutrality. “Of course, sir. I’ll see to it personally.”
Up in the room, I couldn’t sit. I stalked the luxury suite, too wired to park myself anywhere, too wound up to do anything but prowl. The city lights outside the window blurred into streaks of gold and red as I paced, the folder sitting on the desk like a loaded weapon.
The knock came thirty-eight minutes after our call.
I swung the door open to find Theresa standing there, breathing hard. She wore jeans and a navy sweater, hair yanked back in a rushed ponytail, face naked of makeup. She’d clearly thrown clothes on in seconds, getting here trumping looking good.
She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
“What is it?” she asked without preamble, stepping into the room. “What did Callum find?”
I handed her the folder without ceremony. “The news isn’t good.”
Theresa took the folder and sat on the edge of the king-size bed, flipping it open with steady hands. I resumed my pacing as she read, watching her face register each new revelation.
Confusion at first, as she oriented herself to the documents. Then, recognition as she absorbed what she was seeing. Finally,cold fury that transformed her features into something hard and dangerous.
“Eighteen months?” She looked up sharply, and I saw the exact moment the full implication hit her.
“Arthur’s been planning this since before Marco died.”
“At the Aspen event.” Her voice came out flat, controlled, but I saw the rage under the surface. “Marco was watching Arthur talk to QuantumTech. He knew something was wrong.”
“He was right.”
