Trapped By The Wrong Man, Stolen by a Secret Billionaire: Part 4 – The Price of a Lie

The word hung in the air between them. Hunt.

It changed the atmosphere in the room. The soft glow of their shared relief receded, replaced by the hard, cold glint of steel.

Kian didn’t let go of her hand. He pulled out his phone with his free one, his movements economical and precise. He didn’t have to look up the number.

He pressed the screen. It rang once.

“Marcus,” Kian said. There were no pleasantries. “I have a new priority target. Cassandra Thorne.”

Audrey watched, her own breath caught in her chest. The joy was still there, a warm, solid core inside her, but around it, a new, thrilling kind of terror was crystallizing. This was Kian Sterling. The magnate. The king. And he had just been handed his casus belli.

“I want a full financial deep dive. Start from three months ago,” Kian continued, his voice devoid of all warmth. It was the voice he used in boardrooms, the voice that moved markets and ended careers. “I want every wire transfer, every credit card charge, every cash withdrawal. I want to know if she bought a coffee with cash or a card.”

He paused, listening. His eyes, dark and unblinking, were fixed on Audrey’s, holding her in place, making her a witness. Making her his partner.

“This is a Beatrice Sterling operation, which means the money will be laundered. It will flow from a shell corp, probably based offshore, through two or three cutouts before it hits Cassandra’s accounts. Check for new lines of credit. Large lump-sum deposits disguised as trust disbursements or inheritance payouts. My mother values plausible deniability.”

He knew his enemy. He knew her playbook by heart.

“I want to see what she spent it on,” Kian’s voice dropped even lower, becoming a venomous whisper. “New car? Designer wardrobe for her television debut? A down payment on a new apartment? People like Cassandra, they can’t help themselves. The money burns a hole in their pocket. Find the holes.”

Audrey thought of the photo Cole had sent her. Kian and Cassandra, looking intimate. The picture was a lie, but the clothes Cassandra wore, the jewelry at her throat—were they new? Was that what Kian’s money—Beatrice’s money—had bought? The props for a performance designed to ruin them.

A cold, hard fury began to build in her own veins, displacing the last of her fear. She wasn’t the victim in this story anymore. She was the reason for the war.

“Use the full resources of the security division,” Kian commanded. “Pull the London team if you have to. I don’t care what it costs. I want the proof, Marcus. I want the electronic trail that leads from my mother’s bank to Cassandra’s new handbag.”

He went silent again, listening to the man on the other end. A faint smile, thin and sharp as a razor, touched Kian’s lips.

“Good,” he said. “I want a preliminary report on my desk by morning. I want an unbreakable chain of evidence by the end of the week.”