Chapter 6 - The Audit of Richard Trent
By 3:00 a.m., the city was dead quiet.
Inside the subterranean garage beneath Vance’s riverfront loft, a large mahogany table had been dragged into the center of the concrete floor beneath the harsh glare of a single overhead halogen lamp.
Nebula sat at one end of the table, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, a cup of black coffee warming her hands. Her face was still swollen, the bruise on her jaw turning a deep, ugly shade of purple and yellow.
Around the table stood three of Vance’s most trusted men: Marcus, the heavy-set logistics chief; Leo, the silent fixer; and Vance himself, leaning against the edge of the table with a thick manila folder spread open before him.
“Let’s review the architectural marvel,” Vance said dryly, tossing a stack of financial printouts onto the wood.
Nebula looked down. They were bank statements, property deeds, and corporate tax filings bearing Richard Trent’s name.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Your husband is a very ambitious man,” Marcus rumbled, tapping a finger against a corporate ledger. “Too ambitious for a regional architectural firm. Turns out, building hospitals and country clubs doesn't pay for million-dollar suburban mansions and imported Italian sports cars.”
“He has family money,” Nebula said defensively, though even as she said it, she knew it was a lie Richard had fed her.
“He had debt,” Vance corrected, pulling a second folder from the stack. “Six million dollars in private loans from high-interest lenders tied to the regional development board. He was facing bankruptcy six months before you two met.”
Nebula stared at the papers. The dates aligned with the exact period when she had first started frequenting the downtown art gallery where Richard had ‘accidentally’ spilled coffee on her coat.
“He targeted you,” Vance said quietly, watching her face. “Not because he fell in love with a quiet girl from the suburbs. But because he found out you used to manage accounts for a high-net-worth estate—my estate. He thought you had access to dormant syndicate funds when you ran.”
Nebula felt the air leave her lungs. A sick, hollow wave of realization washed over her.
Every sweet word, every candlelit dinner, every carefully curated moment of their courtship—it had all been an audit. A calculated extraction.
“And when he realized you didn't take any money with you when you bolted,” Vance continued, his voice dropping into a cold, lethal register, “he realized he was stuck with a broke, traumatized wife who didn't fit the upscale image he needed for his firm partnerships. So he started building an alibi.”
“An alibi?” Nebula whispered.
“Medical records,” Marcus chimed in, tossing a sheaf of hospital stationary onto the table. “Generated by a friendly psychiatrist on the board of the regional hospital. Six separate entries over three years, documenting your ‘severe anxiety, chronic paranoia, and alcohol abuse.’ All signed off by Richard as your legal guardian.”
Nebula’s hands shook so violently she spilled coffee over the rim of the mug. “He was setting me up. If I ever went to the police... if I ever tried to leave...”
“They would have committed you to a psychiatric facility before you reached the front desk,” Vance finished for her. He pushed himself off the table, walking around to stand behind her chair. He placed a heavy, grounding hand on her shoulder. “He didn't just abuse you, Nebula. He engineered your erasure.”
Nebula looked up at him, her eyes burning with a sudden, ferocious heat that had nothing to do with fear.
“I want him destroyed,” she whispered.
May you like
Vance’s mouth curved into a slow, grim smile.
“Now you’re talking like my bookkeeper,” he said. “Marcus, get the car. We’re going to pay the architect a visit.”
