Chapter 2 — Shattered Expectations
Clara Hastings
The elevator ascended in silence, save for the faint hum of its machinery. Clara Hastings stood motionless, her hands wrapped tightly around the delicate gift bag containing Michael’s cufflinks. The weight of the small, sharp-edged objects pressed against her palm like an accusation, as if mocking her for the blind trust she had once placed in their owner. Above her head, the digital display ticked up floor by floor until it reached her penthouse, the doors sliding open with an efficient ding.
She stepped into her apartment, its pristine serenity an affront to the storm raging within her. The open-plan space was a study in muted perfection: floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, while sleek furniture in shades of cream and gray sat untouched, as if waiting for a magazine photographer to arrive. Clara hadn’t changed a thing in the three years since she’d moved in, every detail curated to project control and competence. Yet now, standing in the middle of it, she felt like an intruder in her own life.
Her heels clicked against the polished hardwood as she crossed to the kitchen counter. She set the gift bag down with deliberate care, pulling out the cufflinks. The silver caught the dim, late-afternoon light, gleaming with an almost smug satisfaction. She turned one over in her fingers, her nails tapping against its smooth surface, each tap a question she couldn’t yet answer.
How had I missed it? The thought had been circling her mind all day, ever since the courier had handed her the package at the church. It wasn’t the first question, of course. That one had been far more primal: Why? Why had Michael vanished without a word, leaving her humiliated in front of hundreds of guests? She could still hear the faint gasps of the crowd, feel the weight of their pitying stares. As the hours passed and her initial shock morphed into a cold, simmering anger, the questions had multiplied. Why the cufflinks? Why the cryptic note? Why now, of all days?
Clara’s grip tightened around one of the cufflinks, the sharp edges biting into her palm. She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to breathe. The logical part of her mind—her fortress when emotions threatened to overwhelm her—pulled her back. She couldn’t afford to spiral, not now.
The sound of a key in the front door lock broke her reverie. Clara turned as Vicky Matthews, her best friend and maid of honor, stepped into the apartment. She was still wearing the pale green bridesmaid dress, its cheerful hue an almost cruel contrast to the day’s events. Her curly blonde hair had escaped its carefully pinned style, framing her round face in chaotic waves.
“Clara?” Vicky’s voice was soft, cautious, as though afraid one wrong word might shatter her completely. She closed the door behind her and approached, her heels sinking into the plush rug. “I thought you might need some company.”
Clara forced a tight smile. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Uh-huh.” Vicky’s green eyes darted to the cufflinks on the counter, then back to Clara’s face. “And I’m the Queen of England. Come on, Clara. You don’t have to do this stoic thing with me. It’s me.”
Clara exhaled sharply and turned away, bracing her hands on the counter. Her reflection in the darkened kitchen window stared back at her, unyielding. “I don’t know what to feel right now, Vicky. Humiliated? Angry? Confused? All of the above?”
“Probably all of the above,” Vicky said gently, stepping closer. “And you’re allowed to feel all of it. No one expects you to have this figured out.”
Clara’s knuckles whitened against the cool surface of the counter. “I hate not knowing. I hate not understanding why he did this.”
“Maybe we can start with the ‘why.’” Vicky’s gaze shifted to the cufflinks again, her voice softening with curiosity. “What’s with those, anyway?”
Clara hesitated, then picked up the cufflink with the tiny mechanism she’d discovered earlier that afternoon. “This,” she said, twisting the piece until the hidden compartment clicked open, revealing the micro-SD card nestled inside. She set it down on the counter between them. “This was inside.”
Vicky’s eyes widened. “What the hell? Since when do cufflinks come with secret compartments? Was Michael moonlighting as James Bond or something?”
Clara’s lips twitched, a fleeting ghost of a smile. “Apparently, he was full of surprises.”
“Have you tried plugging it into something?”
Clara shook her head. “Not yet. I didn’t want to risk corrupting the data. I was going to call Eric—he owes me a favor.”
“Your IT guy?” Vicky asked. Clara nodded. “Good idea. But, Clara…” Vicky hesitated, her voice dipping lower. “Are you sure you want to dig into this? Maybe Michael’s just a coward who couldn’t face you today. Maybe there’s no grand conspiracy.”
Clara’s hazel eyes snapped to Vicky’s, sharp and unyielding. “If that’s the case, then I’ll know. But if it’s not...” She trailed off, her fingers brushing over the cufflink. For a moment, the weight of the unknown felt unbearable. “If it’s not, I need to know what he was hiding.”
Vicky studied her for a long moment, then placed a hand on her arm. “Okay. But promise me you won’t do this alone. Whatever this is, you don’t have to face it by yourself.”
Clara’s lips twitched again, this time closer to a real smile. “I promise.”
After Vicky left, the apartment sank into silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside. Clara sat at her desk in the study, the micro-SD card inserted into a sleek USB adapter connected to her laptop. The screen glowed with a series of encrypted folders, each labeled with a jumble of letters and numbers that meant nothing to her. Her jaw tightened. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.
She picked up her phone and dialed Eric’s number. The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered. “Clara. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need a favor,” Clara said briskly. “And before you ask, yes, it’s legal. Mostly.”
Eric chuckled. “That’s reassuring. What’s the job?”
“I need you to decrypt some files for me.” She hesitated, glancing at the cufflink on the desk. “It’s... personal.”
Eric’s tone shifted, his usual playfulness replaced by concern. “You okay?”
“Not really.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it. Clara cleared her throat. “Can you do it?”
“Send me the files,” Eric said without hesitation. “I’ll take a look.”
Clara transferred the folders to a secure server and sent Eric the link. “Thanks,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me about six,” Eric replied lightly. “I’ll be in touch.”
Hours passed in a haze of restless energy. Clara paced the apartment, her mind racing with possibilities. What could Michael have been involved in that required this level of secrecy? And why had he left the cufflinks for her to find? It felt like a breadcrumb trail, deliberate and maddeningly incomplete.
By the time Eric called back, the city outside her windows was bathed in the orange glow of sunset. Clara snatched up her phone. “Tell me you have something.”
“I do,” Eric said, his voice serious. “The files are encrypted with a pretty advanced algorithm, but I managed to crack one of them. Clara... this isn’t small-time stuff. We’re talking offshore accounts, shell corporations—classic fraud markers. And the name that keeps popping up? Langford Pierce Financial.”
Clara’s stomach dropped. “Langford Pierce? As in Alexander Pierce?”
“Bingo. I don’t know what Michael’s connection to all this is, but whatever it is, it’s big. And dangerous.”
Clara sank into the nearest chair, her mind spinning. Langford Pierce Financial was infamous in legal circles, their name synonymous with high-profile fraud cases. Alexander Pierce, the CEO, was as untouchable as they came—a man whose polished reputation masked a ruthless ambition. Clara had never worked on one of their cases directly, but she’d followed their legal battles closely. The idea that Michael might be connected to them felt both absurd and terrifying.
“Clara?” Eric’s voice jolted her back to the present. “You need to be careful. If Michael was mixed up with these people—”
“I know,” Clara said, her voice steely. “Thanks, Eric. I’ll take it from here.”
She hung up and stared at the cufflinks on the desk, their silver surfaces gleaming innocently. Whatever was happening, Michael had dragged her into something much larger than she’d anticipated. And she wasn’t about to back down.
Her grip tightened around her fountain pen, the familiar weight grounding her. For years, she had built her career on uncovering lies and exposing the truth. This time, the stakes were personal.
The city outside her window stretched out like a chessboard, its glittering skyline daring her to make her move. Clara Hastings never backed away from a challenge.
“Game on,” she murmured.
