Page 26 of Lucas (The Valeur Billionaires #2)

Chapter Eighteen

AVA

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

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 such luck.

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.

Collapsing onto my back, I stare unseeing at the office’s generic ceiling tiles.

I’m in even deeper shit than I thought.

Digging my phone from the wreckage of its shattered case, I dial the one man who might shed light on this festering mess.

“Father.” I try to keep my voice neutral, even as my insides quiver.

“Ava,” his gruff baritone crackles across the line.

“I’m going through the documentation from 2022, and I’m noticing some major inconsistencies.”

“And why on God’s green earth would you be doing that?” he asks, impatience and something sharper, something ugly, running beneath the words.

“Because I received a formal request from Valeur to turn over our full financial records seven years back.”

“And naturally, you hop to, like an obedient little wife.” His scoff makes me flinch, my nails biting into my palms. “Need I remind you that you are a Gant first and foremost? Remember where your loyalties lie, girl.”

“I can’t just refuse. I had our lawyers check. It’s well within his rights. You saw the contract yourself.” I suck in a shaky breath, steeling myself. “Where did the money go?”

He makes a disgusted noise as if I’ve offended him with my gall. “I can’t believe my own flesh and blood could be so na?ve. Are you this stupid or just playing at it?”

“I’m not stupid,” I grit out, each word precise and clipped. “I’m asking you plainly. Where. Did. The. Money. Go?”

“Where do you think, Ava? How do you imagine you grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth? How do you think you had every little luxury, every whim catered to?”

“I never asked for any of that.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t want things. I just wanted you to love me.”

“Love?” He barks out a harsh laugh. “Grow up. Love is worthless, a delusion. Money is the only thing that matters. It’s the only thing that’s real. Now, quit the hysterics and do as you’re told. Get rid of those files.”

“That’s illegal,” I whisper. “You’re asking me to destroy evidence. To commit a crime.”

“Listen closely, little girl. You will get rid of those records, or I will make it crystal clear to your darling husband you are the one responsible for the missing funds.”

“What? Me?” I rocket to my feet, papers scattering like fallen leaves. “You can’t pin this on me.”

“Can’t I? You’re acting CEO of Gant Corp now. Your name is on every form, every transaction. It’s your ass on the line, sweetheart.”

Icy horror drenches me, a bucket of dread upended over my head. He’d do it, the sick bastard. He’d throw me to the wolves without blinking.

“You’d really feed me to the sharks? Your own daughter?” I’m shouting now, control slipping like sand through my grasping fingers.

“Not if you do as you’re told.” His voice goes flat, emotionless. “Now shut up and do your job. Get rid of the evidence, play the good little wife, and this all goes away. But if you breathe a word, if you step one toe out of line, I will bury you. Understand?”

“Father, please?—”

Click .

I stare at my phone. My knees give out, and I slump against the desk, boneless.

Fuck. I collapse onto my desk, my head hitting the surface with a dull thud. I can’t believe it. He threw me under the bus without batting an eye.

A sob builds in my chest, an ugly, wretched thing. I swallow it back, clenching my jaw so hard my teeth creak.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of breaking me. I refuse to shatter.

My stomach grumbles again, and I give in, rising to my feet and calling my assistant. “Hey, Bridget, can you bring me something to eat from downstairs?”

“Umm...” She hesitates.

“What?”

“Well, it’s just... It’s already after five.” An apologetic lilt threads through her words. “I was about to head out, and I’m pretty sure the carts are shutting down for the day too.”

I glance at the clock. “Shit.” She’s right. “It’s okay. Go on home. I’ll manage.” I straighten my clothes, smooth my hair, and rush out the door.

If I hurry, maybe I can find something before they close.

I spot the sandwich cart on the sidewalk and beeline for it, praying I haven’t missed my window. The universe owes me this one small mercy, damn it.

“Hey there,” I call out, pasting on my brightest smile as I approach the haggard-looking vendor. He’s already breaking down the cart, metal chairs stacked beside it. “Please tell me you’ve got something left. Anything. I’m desperate.”

He barely spares me a glance, too focused on wiping down the spattered counters. “Sorry, miss, just closed up.”

“Pretty please? I’ll take anything you’ve got.” I clasp my hands under my chin, willing to beg if I have to. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now.

With a sigh, he cracks the lid of the cooler and rummages around. “Think I might have one egg salad left. Probably been sitting there all day though, can’t vouch for it.”

“I’ll take it!” I lunge across the counter, snatching the cellophane-wrapped sandwich from his grip before he can change his mind. “You’re a godsend.”

He waves off my effusive thanks, already turning back to his closing duties. “Yeah, yeah. Just take it. I already cashed out the register, anyway.”

I toss a quick “You’re the best!” over my shoulder as I book it back inside, my stomach rumbling.

The elevator takes six eons to reach my floor, and I bounce on the balls of my feet, unwrapping my sandwich with unsteady hands. The first bite is heavenly, ambrosia on my tongue. I can’t remember the last time I tasted anything so good.

I practically inhale the rest, barely stopping to breathe, and toss the crumpled wrapper in the bin by my office door.

Skipping lunch wasn’t a good idea, but the missed meal is the least of my problems right now.

Father’s been cooking the books for years. Skimming off the top, fudging numbers, funneling funds to God knows where. Probably straight into his overstuffed pockets .

And now he expects me to help him cover it up. Expects me to fall in line like a good little soldier, just like always.

Fuck. That.

I may be a lot of things—a disappointment, a pawn, the discarded carcass of his legacy—but I’m not a fucking criminal. I won’t destroy evidence. Won’t aid and abet his malfeasance. Not even with the threat of his retribution hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles.

That still leaves me in one hell of a bind. If I don’t play ball, he’ll frame me for the whole sordid mess quicker than I can blink. And if I do...? I’ll spend the rest of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop, jumping at shadows and dreading the knock of the feds at my door.

I’m well and truly fucked. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

Oh no. I squirm in the Jeep’s seat as my stomach cramps and churns, a wave of nausea washing over me. I still have at least a ten-minute drive to the estate.

I can make it until I get there. I can.

I have to because there’s no way I’m stopping out here in the middle of the fields.

And what good would stopping do, anyway? I need to get home.

Oh shit, a spasm grips my abdomen, and I bite my lip, accelerating past the speed limit until the large house appears around the bend. Seeing it, I exhale in relief .

I’ll get into bed, curl up under the covers, and it will be fine. I just need to make it to my room.

Lucas’s Jaguar isn’t in the driveway. Good, he’s not back yet. I can sneak inside unnoticed.

After that horrible event, I have zero intention of speaking to him ever again, and certainly not now when all I want is to lie down and rest, not argue with him.

I rush inside as another wave of nausea hits me.

I race to my room, reaching the bathroom just in time to collapse to my knees over the toilet.

Wave after wave wracks my body.