Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN AT THE AIRPORT
Brooke Lawson arrived at Christopher's office shortly before noon.
She wore a cream-colored coat, carried a designer handbag, and looked as though she had spent the morning preparing for a magazine cover.
Christopher closed his office door behind her.
“Tell me what you meant.”
Brooke placed her handbag on a chair.
“About the money?”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“Chris, don't act as if this is a surprise. You told me Catherine's family would eventually help us expand into private wealth management.”
“I said they might consider an investment.”
“You said you could persuade her.”
“I thought I could.”
Brooke stared at him.
“And now?”
“Now she's reviewing everything.”
For the first time, Brooke looked genuinely alarmed.
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much money could disappear?”
Christopher paced toward the windows.
“It's not that simple. They haven't withdrawn anything yet. They're reviewing their commitments.”
“But investors are nervous.”
“Who told you that?”
“I have friends in finance.”
“Your friends should stop discussing my company.”
Brooke folded her arms.
“You don't need to speak to me like that.”
He turned toward her.
“Then stop asking questions you don't understand.”
Her expression changed.
For twelve years, Brooke had enjoyed being the person Christopher called when he wanted sympathy without accountability.
She had encouraged his complaints about Catherine's independence. She had told him that a man like him deserved a wife who understood the demands of his career.
She had also become accustomed to the expensive dinners, private travel, and generous gifts that accompanied their friendship.
But she had never expected his marriage to collapse before she could benefit from it.
“Maybe you should apologize,” Brooke suggested.
“To Catherine?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Chris, she controls the money.”
“She's my wife.”
Brooke gave a small, incredulous laugh.
“Clearly, that argument isn't working.”
He stared at her.
Then he said something he would later regret.
“You wanted me to come get you last night.”
Brooke went still.
“I didn't force you to leave your wedding.”
“You called me.”
“I told you my flight had been delayed. You decided to come.”
“After you said you had no one else.”
“Because I didn't.”
He looked at her carefully.
“Did you change your flight to arrive on our wedding night?”
Brooke's face tightened.
“I had business in New York.”
“That wasn't my question.”
She picked up her handbag.
“I'm not going to sit here while you blame me for your choices.”
She walked out.
Christopher remained beside the window, unsettled by the conversation.
He had spent years believing Brooke understood him better than anyone.
Now he wondered how much of their friendship had been built on his willingness to pay for it.
Across town, Catherine's attorney, Vivian Park, was examining a set of company records.
Vivian had represented the Sinclair family for nearly a decade. She was known for asking precise questions and never mistaking suspicion for proof.
“There's an issue,” she told Catherine.
“What kind?”
“Several payments from a Thorne Capital subsidiary to a consulting company called Lawson Advisory.”
Catherine looked up.
“Brooke's company?”
“The registered owner is Brooke Lawson.”
“How much?”
“Approximately four hundred thousand dollars over eighteen months.”
Catherine felt the familiar tightness in her chest.
“Was it legitimate consulting?”
“We don't know yet. Some invoices describe market research. Others list strategic introductions. We need the contracts and evidence of services rendered.”
“Does the trust own part of that subsidiary?”
“Indirectly, through an investment vehicle. That's why we're entitled to review the records.”
Catherine stared at the statements.
She had never demanded access to Christopher's daily business.
She had trusted him to keep his work separate from their relationship.
That trust now felt embarrassingly expensive.
“Could these payments be illegal?”
“Possibly, but we have no basis to conclude that. They could be legitimate. They could represent a conflict of interest. We need evidence.”
“Then find it.”
Vivian nodded.
“We'll request the supporting documentation through the proper channels.”
Later that afternoon, Christopher received a formal notice requesting contracts, invoices, and disclosures relating to the payments.
He read it twice.
Then he called Brooke.
“Did you submit invoices for work you didn't perform?”
“What?”
“Lawson Advisory. Four hundred thousand dollars.”
Her silence lasted too long.
“We discussed consulting.”
“You were paid for consulting.”
“I introduced you to people.”
“Which people?”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because my auditors are asking questions.”
Brooke's voice sharpened.
“You said everything was handled.”
“I said the payments were approved.”
“Then they were approved.”
“That's not the same as proving services were delivered.”
She hung up.
Christopher stood motionless.
For the first time, his problems had a shape beyond Catherine's anger.
There were contracts.
There were invoices.
There were records.
And there was a woman he had protected for years who might now be protecting herself.
That evening, Christopher went to his mother's apartment.
Eleanor listened as he described the situation.
When he finished, she asked, “Did you ever love Catherine?”
He looked offended.
“Of course.”
“Then why did you humiliate her?”
“I didn't humiliate her.”
“You left your bride in a wedding dress to collect another woman.”
“Brooke was stranded.”
“And Catherine was standing right in front of you.”
He said nothing.
Eleanor walked to the window.
“I warned you that marrying Catherine would require more than attending charity dinners and smiling for photographs. Her family respects independence. They don't buy obedience.”
Christopher's jaw tightened.
“Are you taking her side?”
“I'm taking the side of reality.”
He left without answering.
At 11:00 p.m., Brooke sent him a message.
We need to talk privately. Don't bring lawyers.
Christopher stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
There are things Catherine doesn't know about the investment proposal.
He called immediately.
Brooke didn't answer.
Instead, she sent an address.
A private club in Midtown.
Christopher arrived twenty minutes later.
Brooke was seated in a dark booth with a folder on the table.
She slid it toward him.
Inside were copies of emails, draft investment presentations, and a spreadsheet containing proposed payments.
One email bore Christopher's name.
The subject line read: Sinclair Expansion — Approval Strategy.
He read the first paragraph.
Then the second.
His face drained of color.
He remembered writing those words.
He also remembered what he had meant by them.
And now he understood why Brooke had insisted on meeting in private.
May you like
She wasn't simply afraid of losing her consulting income.
She was afraid of what the documents might reveal about both of them.
