Chapter 33: Why She Was Chosen

The elevator doors closed behind me.

The silence inside Verline Tower felt different from Ashford Estate.

Here, silence belonged to work.

Not fear.

Rose waited beside the reception desk holding a leather folder.

"Everything you requested is inside," she said.

"The employment records, the foundation documents, and the personnel files from before your marriage."

"Thank you."

"Has anyone asked about them?"

"Only Damien."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I didn't know where you were."

"Good."

She hesitated.

"Mrs. Ashford... Mr. Hayes also left something for you this morning."

She handed me a sealed envelope.

Victor's handwriting covered the front.

Open only after you understand why she was chosen.

No name.

Just that sentence.

I slipped the envelope into my handbag.

Not yet.

First, I needed to answer the question myself.

Why had Damien chosen me?

Three years ago, I believed it had been love.

Now I wasn't sure it had ever been love at all.

I entered my restored office.

The familiar scent of cedar and polishing compound welcomed me home.

Half-finished jewelry sketches covered the drafting table.

For the first time in months, they didn't look abandoned.

They looked alive.

I opened the personnel file Eleanor had refused to let anyone destroy.

Ashford Foundation.

Executive Recruitment.

Five years earlier.

Dozens of candidates.

Event coordinators.

Financial consultants.

Legal advisers.

Near the bottom sat another folder.

Volunteer Applications.

I frowned.

That had nothing to do with me.

Curious, I opened it.

Inside were photographs from one of the foundation's children's hospital events.

My breath caught.

There I was.

Three years before meeting Damien.

Hair tied back.

No makeup.

Holding a little girl wearing a paper crown.

I remembered her.

Emily.

She loved drawing butterflies.

Why would Ashford Holdings keep photographs of volunteers?

Another page answered the question.

Candidate Observation Report.

Subject: Vivian Clarke.

Date: Two years before engagement.

Observation One.

Independent business owner.

Financially stable.

No political affiliations.

Observation Two.

Responsible for supporting younger apprentices without compensation.

Observation Three.

High public approval.

Minimal controversy.

Observation Four.

Strong emotional attachment to family.

Final Recommendation.

Suitable.

I stared at the final word.

Suitable.

Not loved.

Not admired.

Evaluated.

Selected.

The office door opened quietly.

Damien stood there.

Neither security nor reception had stopped him.

"You still have access," I said.

"It's my building."

"Not this office."

His eyes drifted toward the report lying open on my desk.

Recognition flashed across his face.

"Where did you find that?"

"Among the foundation records."

"It wasn't supposed to remain there."

"Interesting choice of words."

"You didn't deny it existed."

He stepped closer.

"Vivian..."

"Answer one question."

"Did you know someone investigated me before we met?"

He stayed silent.

"Did you?"

Several seconds passed.

"No," he finally answered.

"I didn't."

"Then who ordered this report?"

"I don't know."

"That's becoming your favorite sentence."

"Because it's the truth."

"Is it?"

I turned the page.

Another signature appeared at the bottom.

Authorization approved by Executive Office.

Only initials remained.

E.A.

"Eleanor Ashford," I whispered.

Damien's expression changed immediately.

"Let me see."

He reached for the report.

I folded it shut before he touched it.

"No."

"Vivian."

"No."

"My mother wouldn't investigate your private life."

"Really?"

"Because she certainly enjoyed reminding me where I came from."

"That isn't evidence."

"Neither is blind loyalty."

His jaw tightened.

"You think she arranged our marriage?"

"I'm beginning to think someone did."

He looked genuinely unsettled.

"I asked you to marry me."

"Did you choose me?"

"Or were you handed my file?"

The question lingered between us.

For the first time since our separation...

Damien couldn't answer immediately.

His silence spoke louder than denial.

"I met you at the jewelry exhibition," he said eventually.

"That part was real."

"And afterward?"

"Mother encouraged me to pursue you."

"Because she thought we suited each other."

"Or because she'd already investigated me for two years?"

He looked away.

"I never knew about the report."

"But you didn't ask why your mother suddenly approved of a jeweler she later called beneath your family."

Another silence.

Longer this time.

"No," he admitted.

"I didn't."

I nodded slowly.

That confession hurt more than another lie.

He had never questioned anything.

Not my past.

Not my miscarriage.

Not his mother's hatred.

Not Colette's stories.

Believing had always been easier than asking.

My phone buzzed.

Victor Hayes.

One sentence appeared.

Now open the envelope.

I did.

Inside was a single photograph.

It showed Eleanor Ashford leaving a downtown restaurant.

The date printed beneath it was four years ago.

She wasn't alone.

Across the table sat a man wearing a dark suit.

His face was partially turned toward the camera.

Even with only half his profile visible...

I recognized him instantly.

Richard Hawthorne.

Founder of Hawthorne Logistics.

The same company Nathaniel had connected to the missing millions.

Written across the back of the photograph, in Victor's handwriting, were eight chilling words.

"This meeting happened six months before Damien met you."