My Husband Told Me I Looked Like Catering at His Promotion Gala — Then I Stepped Onto the Stage as the New Owner of His Company
The security monitoring room at Apex Maritime was usually quiet, a single guard occasionally glancing at the bank of screens. Tonight, however, it was a hub of activity. Detective Raymond Walsh stood beside me, his gaze fixed on the feeds.
“He’s in,” the security officer murmured, pointing to a screen showing a shadowy figure moving through an empty hallway. Marcus.
Knowing his legal walls were closing in, Marcus had decided on a desperate move. He’d slipped into the building after hours, clearly aiming for the server room. He was a cornered animal, and he was coming for the heart of the evidence.
“He’s heading for the archives,” Detective Walsh stated, his voice calm, methodical. “The original transaction ledgers, the hard drives. That’s where he’d find the source data.”
On screen, Marcus fumbled with the key card reader outside the server room door. It flashed red, denying him access. He cursed, visible even through the grainy night vision. Then he pulled out a slim toolkit.
“He’s trying to hotwire the lock,” I said, a cold knot forming in my stomach. The thought of him destroying everything, erasing the truth, was sickening.
“He won’t get far,” Detective Walsh assured me. “Our units are in position.”
Outside, blue and red lights began to flash, painting the darkened parking lot in strobing colors. Squad cars positioned themselves at every exit, their engines idling.
Marcus eventually managed to bypass the lock. He slipped into the server room, a cramped space filled with humming machinery and blinking lights. He moved quickly, heading straight for the rows of servers. I watched, my breath held tight, as he began yanking cables, pulling out hard drives. He was frantic, desperate to erase his mistakes.
“He’s got two drives,” the security officer reported, his voice tense. “Looks like the primary and the backup.”
Marcus stuffed the drives into a backpack he’d brought. He moved with a speed I hadn’t seen in years, a focus born of pure panic. He made his way back through the deserted hallways, unaware of the net tightening around him. He was almost at the fire exit.
“He’s at the west stairwell,” Detective Walsh announced into his radio. “Move in.”
I watched Marcus on the screen, his silhouette outlined against the emergency exit door. He pushed the bar, and the door swung open, revealing the flashing lights of the police cruisers. He froze, caught in the sudden glare.
His shoulders slumped. The game was over.
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