Chapter 1 - The Disappearing Balances
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and fading flowers.
Five days after the surgeon cracked my sternum and repaired my mitral valve, the IV lines were finally pulled from my wrists. Corbin had come by for twenty minutes, dropped off a bag of laundry I hadn't asked for, and made a vague excuse about a "client emergency" at his failing architectural firm.
Rosalind Cain, the nurse who had held my hand before I went under, stepped into the room pushing a portable vitals monitor. Her sharp, observant eyes took in my pale face, the laptop sitting open on my tray table, and the quiet, heavy silence of the room.
"You're not supposed to be working, Marlo," Rosalind said gently, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm. "The surgeon said complete rest. No stress."
"I was just checking my company’s client portal," I whispered, my voice still gravelly from the intubation tube. "I run Ashgrove Design Studio. We have three commercial projects completing this month. I need to make sure the contractor payroll cleared."
Rosalind’s cuff inflated, humming softly. "And did it?"
I stared at the glowing laptop screen. My fingers trembled as I refreshed the online banking page for the third time.
The business operating account—which had held $340,000 when I went into surgery on Monday—currently showed a balance of $1,214.88.
My breath hitched. A sharp, burning spike of pain shot through my chest, setting off the heart monitor's rhythm alarm. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"Marlo, breathe," Rosalind urged immediately, leaning over to check my pulse. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly."
"It's gone," I gasped, clutching my hospital gown over my bandaged chest. "Rosalind... my business account. My father built this company for thirty years before he passed. It's... it's empty."
Rosalind looked at the screen, her professional calm fracturing for a brief second into pure shock.
I clicked on the transaction history.
Four separate wire transfers had been executed over forty-eight hours—all while I was lying unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit, hooked to a mechanical ventilator.
Transfer 1: $100,000 to Voss Commercial LLC. Transfer 2: $100,000 to Voss Commercial LLC. Transfer 3: $85,000 to Sable Voss Personal Account. Transfer 4: $50,000 to Highline Capital Holdings.
Voss Commercial LLC was Corbin’s mother’s paper company. Sable was his sister.
And Highline Capital Holdings was the private lender financing Sable’s failed luxury med-spa venture in downtown Seattle.
"Who had access to your corporate authorization keys?" Rosalind asked, her voice dropping into a hard, protective register.
"Corbin," I whispered, tears of rage and disbelief burning my eyes. "He was listed as a secondary administrative officer on the corporate charter... in case of my death."
In case of my death.
They hadn't waited for my heart to fail. They had treated my open-heart surgery as an execution date.
I reached for my phone, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped it onto the floor. I dialed Corbin’s number.
It rang four times before going straight to voicemail.
I immediately called my company’s lead accountant and my lifelong friend, Marcus Vance.
"Marlo?" Marcus answered on the second ring, his tone frantic. "Thank God you're awake! Marlo, where are you? I've been trying to reach Corbin since yesterday! The bank flagged three massive wire transfers from the main operating account!"
"Marcus," I said, my voice cold as ice despite the tears streaming down my face. "Corbin emptied the accounts."
Silence fell over the line, followed by a harsh, disbelieving breath. "He did what?"
"He used the corporate power-of-attorney clause we filed before my surgery," I explained, struggling to keep my breathing steady. "He transferred three hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars to his family."
"That bastard," Marcus swore under his breath. "Marlo, that’s not all. I called your home phone an hour ago to check on you. Lorraine answered."
I froze. "Lorraine is at my house?"
"She isn't just at your house, Marlo," Marcus said carefully. "A staging company truck was parked in your driveway. They were moving out your father's antique furniture and replacing it with cheap rental staging decor."
May you like
My blood ran cold. "Staging decor? Why would she stage my house?"
"Because," Marcus rasped, "your house—the Ashgrove estate—was listed on the MLS real estate portal three hours ago. Asking price: $1.8 million. Seller listed as: Corbin Ashgrove, Executor of the Marlo Ashgrove Estate."
