If you let my wife take me back to the executive suite, I won’t make it to my seventh birthday, six-year-old Julian whispered, his small fingers digging into my leather motorcycle vest on a 104-d...
The smell of roast chicken filled my suburban house, a domestic façade that felt utterly alien. Victoria was in the kitchen, humming softly, her back to me. “Arthur? You’re home early,” she called, her voice light and cheerful. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”
I walked into the kitchen, forcing a casual smile. “Just finished up a few things at the office.” My hands, however, were shaking. I tucked them into my pockets, trying to appear normal. The image of my motorcycle registration on Croft’s falsified appraisal burned in my mind.
While she turned back to stir a pot, I covertly moved towards her home office, which doubled as our guest bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. My eyes scanned her desk, cluttered with corporate reports and legal pads.
Then I saw it. A sleek, black encrypted flash drive, barely visible beneath a stack of printouts. It wasn’t standard Apex Capital issue.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed it, slipping it into my pocket as Victoria’s humming stopped.
“Everything alright, Arthur?” she asked, walking in, a slight frown on her perfect face. Her gaze settled on my hands, which I realized were still trembling.
I forced a laugh, a dry, rasping sound. “Long day. Just a bit tired.”
She didn’t press. Instead, she walked to the desk, her movements fluid and unhurried. She picked up a pristine white envelope.
“Speaking of long days,” she said, her tone suddenly businesslike. She laid a newly drafted life insurance policy addendum on the table between us. “I thought it was time we updated this. Just a formality, of course. For both of us. Sign here and here.”
My eyes flickered from the document to her, then back to the blank signature lines. The familiar dread coiled in my stomach. A formality. Of course. Just like everything else.
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