Laurent Global Holdings. Top floor. Private office.
The blinds were drawn, the lights dimmed low.
Ashton sat behind his desk, hands still, face unreadable.
Across from him, Dominic finished his report in a low, careful voice. The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the NovelHub(.)net
When Ashton didn’t interrupt, didn’t frown, Dominic finally exhaled.
‘These need your signature,’ he said, sliding a folder forward.
He listed each document while Ashton flipped through, reviewing, annotating, signing with quick strokes.
His voice was flat. The sort of tone that left no room for unnecessary replies.
He hadn’t wanted to be there.
Dominic’s call had pulled him out of bed, away from Mirabelle, away from the heat and scent of her skin, the weight of her tucked under his arm, silent and half-asleep.
He could still smell her shampoo on his clothes.
Ashton flexed his fingers once, then stilled them on the desk.
It was pointless to be annoyed now.
If he was already here, he might as well get something done.
‘There’s one more thing. We traced the connection between Rowan Hale and Gwendolyn Laurent. She was Rowan’s benefactor.’
‘Gwendolyn funded Rowan’s schooling through a charity, starting in secondary all the way through university. There’s no record of personal contact between them, though, and the financial support ended after graduation. No signs they’ve kept in touch.’
‘If they’re scheming together, there won’t be a paper trail,’ Ashton said. ‘Push her like I told you. If she reacts, we’ll know.’
Dominic nodded. ‘Understood.’
Ashton laid out the details.
Dominic left without asking questions.
Ashton stayed at his desk, tried to read the email on his screen.
His eyes skimmed over the text without absorbing a single line.
Mirabelle’s face kept pushing its way to the front of his mind—her mouth twitching when she pretended not to laugh, her arms wrapped tight around the quilt, her smile too quick, her eyes not meeting his when he left.
It had taken everything he had to walk out.
By noon, the urge to return was clawing at the inside of his chest.
He forced himself to sit, watch the clock, burn through more useless meetings.
At half past two, he gave in and sent a message: [Wake up. Eat something.]
He checked the thread. Five unread messages since morning. All one-sided.
Was she still sleeping or just ignoring him on purpose?
If she was asleep, the sound would wake her.
If she wasn’t, she’d let it ring.
‘She’s not home,’ Geoffrey said. ‘She left for the studio an hour ago.’
Ashton ended the call and glanced out the window.
Snow drifted past the glass in slow, twisting lines.
Wind pushed the flakes in jerking gusts across the skyline.
She’d gone out in that.
He stood, grabbed his coat.
Minutes later, he was seated in the car, heading for Mirabelle’s studio.
‘Mr Laurent,’ Dominic said without preamble. ‘You asked me to look into Daniel Williams. He’s Clive Granger’s illegitimate son. Rhys Granger’s younger half-brother.’
Ashton’s fingers locked around the armrest. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. He studied in Wessexia. Clive Granger was listed as his father. It’s on the records. I’ve got additional documentation, but—’
‘Send it. All of it.’ Ashton ended the call.
‘Faster,’ he told Gino.
The street narrowed ahead, snow clinging to the gutters, wind pushing it sideways against the glass.
The studio was two blocks away.
He’d known something was off the moment Gwendolyn shoved that photo in his face.
Mirabelle and Daniel. The angle was too neat, too framed.
Someone had posed for that camera.
It couldn’t be Mirabelle, so...
At the time, Ashton had dismissed it.
The man worked at the studio.
From what Mirabelle told him, Daniel was a good worker. Friendly, kept his head down, polite to a fault.
Mirabelle treated him like a friend.
Still, Ashton had ordered the background check, just in case.
If nothing came of it, the file would be deleted.
Daniel Williams was Rhys Granger’s blood.
Which meant he had no business standing within ten feet of Mirabelle.
Snow clumped along the windscreen as the wipers scraped back and forth in slow, struggling sweeps.
Gino eased off the accelerator.
‘Road’s slick, sir. We’ll get there, but not fast,’ he said, eyes on the red tail-lights ahead.
Ashton stared at his phone, thumb tapping the screen again.
He let out a short breath through his nose and hit redial.
Straight to voicemail.
The car in front of them hadn’t moved in minutes.
A line of hazard lights blinked ahead, casting orange pulses across the snow-covered street.
Two vehicles sat crooked in the middle of the intersection, a dented front bumper hanging low.
A uniformed officer paced along the roadside, torchlight flickering across licence plates.
‘They’ve cordoned off the junction,’ Gino muttered. ‘Might take another fifteen, twenty—’
Ashton was already unbuckling.
He shoved the door open, cold air slapping into the cabin.
‘I’ll walk from here. It’s two blocks.’
Gino leaned over the centre console. ‘You sure? The snow’s coming down hard.’
Ashton shut the door, pulled his coat collar up, and turned into the wind.