Chapter 57: The Money Trail

Disposal. The word sat on that sticky note like a cockroach in a clean kitchen. It wasn't medical slang, and it wasn't legal jargon. It was a chore, a line item on a checklist that ended with my name being scrubbed from the earth.

I leaned against the heavy steel desk, the manila folder shaking in my hands. The pen light flickered, the battery dying at the exact moment my world was collapsing. I needed to see more. I needed to follow the money, because Mark Vance never did anything without a profit margin.

I fumbled with the desk drawers. They were locked, but the skeleton key was still in the main door behind me. I scrambled back, my bare feet silent on the cold concrete, and yanked it free.

The middle drawer yielded with a heavy groan. Inside, neat rows of ledgers and bank statements were filed under names that weren't mine. *Vance Offshore Holdings. Rostova Trust. Sarah Vance Estate.*

I opened the top ledger. My eyes blurred as I tried to decipher the columns of numbers, my mind reeling from the betrayal. Mark had told me our savings were tied up in Lily's future. He had told me the house was an investment for our retirement.

It was all a lie. He had been siphoning my salary, my small inheritance from my grandmother, and every cent of our joint accounts into a shell company based in the Grenadines. But that wasn't the worst part.

I found a separate, thin blue folder at the back of the drawer. It was an insurance policy.

I stared at the numbers. My life was worth five million dollars. And the primary beneficiary wasn't Lily. It wasn't a trust for her education.

It was Elena Rostova.

I flipped to the last page, looking for the date. The policy had been updated three days ago. The day I came home from the hospital. The day "Chloe" moved in to help me recover.

Mark hadn't just scouted me for my resemblance to his dead sister. He had scouted me because I was a high-value asset with a short shelf life.

The floorboards creaked again, more rhythmically this time. Someone was walking toward the basement door. Chloe. I could hear the faint, high-pitched whistle she made when she was deep in thought—a sound I had once found endearing.

I shoved the ledgers back into the drawer and slammed it shut. I didn't have time to lock it. I dove under the massive mahogany desk, pulling my knees to my chest, my breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches.

The basement door at the top of the stairs groaned open.

"Mark?" Chloe’s voice drifted down, sharp and impatient. "I know you're down there. Stop hiding and come sign these papers. The van will be here in four hours."

Four hours. They had moved the "disposal" up again.

I clutched the dossier to my chest, the paper crinkling in the absolute silence. I realized now that the island clinic wasn't a mental health retreat. It was a one-way trip to a shallow grave or a furnace.

They weren't just going to commit me. They were going to kill me.