Page 63 of Lucas

Hurt flashes across her face, there and gone. She squares her shoulders, lifting her chin. “Fine. Are we done here? I’d like to go home now.”

“Yeah. We’re done.” I wave off the approaching valet and stalk to the car, yanking open the passenger door with far more force than necessary.

Ava slips inside without a word, spine ramrod straight. I slam it closed with a satisfying bang and circle the hood to throw myself behind the wheel.

The drive home passes in stony, charged silence. Ava keeps her face turned to the window, refusing to even look at me. The muscle in my jaw ticks as I crank the volume on the angry metal album blaring through the speakers.

Focusing on the road is the only thing keeping me from saying something I’ll regret. Or pulling over here and yanking her into my arms to shove her anger and mine down her throat with my mouth.

I’m so furious I can taste it, acrid and hot on the back of my tongue. At her. At myself. At this whole fucked up situation.

God, what a clusterfuck of a night. And it’s only the beginning. How the hell am I supposed to survive two years of this?

Chapter Eighteen

AVA

My phone slips from my grasp as I stretch to reach a binder on the top shelf, the screen cracking on impact.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, yanking down the heavy yellow binder labeled2022.

My stomach grumbles, a sharp pang of hunger reminding me I haven’t eaten since morning. No time for that now.

Sinking into my desk chair, I read the officious email from Valeur Real Estate again, making sure of the dates, the words blurring before my tired eyes.

“Gant Construction is hereby requested to provide all financial records and reports spanning the last seven fiscal years.” The message includes the specific dates.

Burying my face in my hands, I let out a muffled groan. Lucas had every right to demand this. I even double-checked with my lawyer, hoping for a loophole. No suchluck.

But seven whole years? Isn’t that excessive? I eye the towering stack of binders on my desk, each one stuffed to bursting with papers.

Well, he never specified the format. Nowhere does it say he gets nice, neat digital files.

I suppose a box crammed full of physical binders will have to suffice. Petty? Perhaps. But I’ll take my small victories where I can.

Cracking open the first binder, I go through the documents, scanning for anything sensitive that shouldn’t fall into enemy hands.

But these numbers don’t add up.

I flip faster, a frown etching itself between my brows with every turned page. The more I read, the less sense it makes.

We never built that River Heights project, so why is it listed here?

Granted, I wasn’t working at Gant Corp that year, but I still know the development. I know which contractor won that bid, and it sure as hell wasn’t us.

What is going on?

Sinking to the floor, I spread the binders out around me, plucking more and more off the shelves as I cross-reference.

None of this matches up. There are too many discrepancies, too many questionable entries. This can’t be accidental.

My stomach gurgles again, and I ignore it, too focused on the sinking suspicion solidifying like a stone in my gut.

Rising to my knees, I drag my laptop off the desk and pull up our official financial database. The numbers from 2022 don’t match the hard copies. It’s small numbers, but they add up.

Row after row, column after column, I scroll through the data as an uneasy chill walks its icy fingers up my spine.

Someone falsified these records. And there’s only one person with the access and authority to do that.