Page 81 of Omega's Formula

I pull up my email and start typing.

Sara—

Need the recording forensically analyzed. Full authentication. Also: I want a complete investigation into Alistair Wallace. All of his business dealings, not just the ones with us. Every company he’s sold research to, every lawsuit, every settlement. I want to know where his money comes from and where it goes. I don’t want that man taking a shit without it being documented.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself.

Sara’s response comes almost immediately.On it, boss.

Anna is watching me. “What are you going to do if it’s fake?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. If the recording is fake, then Alistair played me. And Nolan—

What must he think? He was already convinced I stole his research. Then I married him, got him through a heat, started to build something that felt real. And then I turned on him withoutwarning, without explanation. Just coldness and an eviction notice.

He must hate me. He has every right to hate me.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

We sit in silence as the evening fades toward night. The river moves past us, dark and steady, indifferent to the chaos in my head.

My phone buzzes three hours later.

I’m in my penthouse by then, pacing the living room like an animal, unable to sit still. Anna left an hour ago after making me promise to call her as soon as I heard anything. The wait has been excruciating.

I’ve worn a path in the carpet. Somewhere out there is Nolan, possibly pregnant, and I have no idea where.

The worst scenarios keep playing in my head. What if he’s sick? What if the weight loss and the pallor were symptoms of something serious, something beyond simple withdrawal? What if he’s pregnant and alone and struggling, and I’m the reason?

My phone has been sitting on the coffee table like a bomb waiting to go off. Every time it doesn’t buzz, the silence feels like an accusation.

When the screen finally lights up, I lunge for it so fast I nearly knock over my untouched whiskey.

Sara’s name appears on the screen. I answer before the second ring.

“What did you find?”

“The recording is fake.” Her voice is professional. “The forensic analyst says it’s a splice job. Multiple audio sources cut together to form a coherent conversation. Probably pulled from different recordings of Nolan speaking, then assembled with Alistair’s responses.”

The floor seems to shift beneath my feet.

“You’re sure.”

“Positive. The analyst found at least three separate audio signatures. The background noise changes between segments—different ambient sounds, different acoustic profiles. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it sound authentic, but under professional analysis it falls apart.”

Three separate audio signatures. Which means Alistair had recordings of Nolan from multiple sources, spliced them together to create a confession that never happened.

“The bar,” I manage. “The Brass Anchor—”

“Erik, if this recording is fabricated, it throws everything else into question too. The original research acquisition, the settlement, all of it.”

I know. God, I know.

“Keep digging,” I say. “Everything on Alistair. I want to know exactly what we bought and where it really came from.”

“Already on it. I’ll have a preliminary report by tomorrow.”

I draw in a deep breath. “And the pregnancy?”