The Test

Mark’s truck was just a speck of red taillights fading into the dawn when I finally moved. I pulled the real RSA token from my sleeve, the plastic warm and heavy against my palm. The numbers on the small LCD screen were already cycling, a countdown to a door that would only stay open for a few seconds.

I ran to the study, my feet slipping slightly on the marble. I didn't bother with the lights. The glow of the triple monitors was enough, bathing the room in a cold, artificial dawn. I plugged the token into the USB adapter I had configured to bypass the company’s geolocation lock—a little trick Leo had taught me.

*294-881.*

I typed the code into the banking portal. The cursor blinked once, twice. Then the screen dissolved from the red "Access Denied" banner into the clean, blue interface of the Cayman Island National Bank.

My breath hitched. I was in. I was inside the vault that held the price of my life.

I navigated to the "Isabella Holdings" main ledger. The numbers scrolled past, a dizzying waterfall of siphoned assets. Mark had been busy. He hadn't just been skimming off the top; he had been draining the reservoir. Every major project from the last eighteen months had been billed for "consulting fees" that funneled directly here.

I clicked on the "Current Balance" tab. The screen refreshed.

*$3,240,000.00*

I stared at the number, my mind racing. It was almost exactly the amount of liquidity the company needed to pass the audit on Friday. Mark hadn't stolen random amounts; he had stolen the company's survival. He had taken the exact sum required to keep the business solvent, gambling that he could flee before the collapse.

But there was something else. A pending transaction, flagged in yellow.

* Scheduled Transfer: $3.2M to ‘Phoenix Escrow’.*
* Authorization Required: Biometric + RSA Token.*

He had set it up. He had taken the bait. The "Project Phoenix" trap I had laid last night was active, waiting for a single click to execute. But the beneficiary wasn't my FBI-monitored account.

I clicked on the details. The destination routing number had been changed. It didn't point to the fraud division’s holding tank. It pointed to a new account, opened three hours ago.

*Beneficiary: B. Vance.*

Bella.

Mark hadn't just fallen for the trap; he had modified it. He was trying to cut me out of the fake deal I had invented, funneling the money directly to Bella before I could intercept it. He was stealing from my theft.

I laughed, a dry, sharp sound in the empty room. He was so predictable. So greedy. And so incredibly stupid. Because he didn't realize that by changing the routing number, he had just linked Bella’s personal identity directly to the fraud.

He hadn't saved her. He had just framed her.

I looked at the clock. 7:45 AM. Mark was at the site. Bella was likely packing. I had the real token. I had the access.

I moved the cursor to the "Edit Transfer" button. I didn't cancel it. I didn't change the amount. I simply reverted the routing number back to the FBI escrow account and added a second requirement for the release of funds.

*Secondary Authorization: CFO Signature.*

I hit enter. The screen flashed green.

*Update Successful. Pending Final Approval.*

I sat back, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had the money. I had the leverage. And now, I knew exactly how much my husband thought our marriage was worth.

$3.2 Million. The exact amount of the company's liquidity.