Chapter 3 - The Missing VolumeThe fire crackled softly in the hearth, throwing long, dancing shadows across the mahogany walls of the guest suite. Maeve sat quietly, sipping a cup of hot chamomile tea Killian had insisted on pouring himself—an act of domesticity so completely out of character for the ruthless shipping magnate that it felt almost surreal.
“You’re thinking about the house accounts,” Maeve said softly, breaking the silence.
Killian, who had been pacing slowly near the bookshelves, stopped and looked at her. “Explain.”
“For three years, I’ve managed the household expenditures,” Maeve explained, keeping her eyes fixed on the rim of her teacup. “Every grocery receipt, every repair bill, every payroll disbursement for the estate staff. But six months ago, the accounting structure changed.”
Killian frowned, stepping closer. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Vance—your chief financial officer—began auditing the estate ledgers personally,” she said. “He told me it was a directive straight from your office to streamline domestic costs. But the numbers didn't add up, Mr. Ashcroft. Deliveries for wine and provisions were being billed under dummy corporate entities registered in the Cayman Islands. I kept my own supplemental log—not out of suspicion, but because I’m meticulous. It’s my job.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Killian’s face went entirely blank, but the intensity in his slate-gray eyes burned like a furnace. Richard Vance. His CFO. A man who had been by his side for over a decade, handling the complex web of legitimate maritime logistics and the shadowy financial architecture that kept the syndicate liquid.
“Where is that supplemental log?” Killian asked, his voice chillingly calm.
Maeve’s heart skipped a beat. She set her teacup down on the table with a tiny, sharp clink.
“It was in my canvas bag. The one they searched at Fort Point.”
Killian didn't yell. He didn't smash a glass or slam his fist against the wall. Instead, a terrifying, predatory smile touched the corners of his mouth—the smile of a man who had just realized he had been stabbed in the back by his most trusted lieutenant.
“They didn't find it in your bag, Maeve,” Killian said softly.
Maeve blinked. “How do you know?”
“Because if Richard Vance’s men had found that log tonight, you wouldn’t be sitting in my guest suite drinking tea,” Killian stated flatly. “You would be at the bottom of Boston Harbor wrapped in a cargo net. The fact that they intercepted you, tore apart your car, and came up empty-handed means they are desperate. They know a ledger exists, but they don't know where it is.”
“If they don't have it...” Maeve’s breath hitched. “Then they’ll come back here. To the estate.”
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“Let them try,” Killian murmured, turning toward the heavy oak door. He pulled a heavy brass-keyed ring from his pocket and locked the guest suite from the outside, securing her safely inside before walking out into the corridor.
Maeve heard his heavy footsteps fade down the carpeted hallway, leaving her alone with the fire, the ticking clock, and the terrifying realization that Christmas Eve in the Ashcroft mansion was only just beginning.
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