Chapter 4 - My Father's Last Project
My father called the project Haven.
He had dreamed of building small luxury retreats designed around privacy rather than spectacle.
No giant towers.
No celebrity openings.
No marble lobbies designed for photographs.
Just extraordinary properties in extraordinary landscapes.
Dad showed me the original plans six months before he died.
“People with money eventually discover privacy is the last luxury they can't easily buy,” he told me.
After his death, Adrian reviewed Haven and declared it commercially unworkable.
I believed him.
Now Northstar was developing what looked almost exactly like it.
Margaret spread the documents across Dad's desk.
“Someone accessed archived Haven files eleven months ago.”
“Who?”
“We're tracing credentials.”
“Adrian?”
“Possibly.”
I looked at architectural drawings.
Even the curved stone entrance resembled Dad's sketches.
“This wasn't an accident.”
“No.”
My phone buzzed.
A message from Adrian.
Please let me attend Daniel's memorial.
I stared at it.
We had scheduled a private service for Wednesday.
Only family.
I hadn't told Adrian.
“How does he know?” I asked.
Margaret looked at the message.
“Noah?”
“No.”
My mother entered carrying tea.
When she saw my expression, she understood.
“You should decide what you can live with afterward,” she said.
Not what Adrian deserved.
What I could live with.
That distinction mattered.
Daniel was his son too.
However badly Adrian had failed him.
I finally replied.
Wednesday. 10 a.m. St. Matthew's. Come alone.
His answer arrived immediately.
Thank you.
Wednesday morning, Adrian sat in the last pew.
He obeyed.
No Celeste.
No security.
No assistants.
No press.
Just Adrian.
For the first time since I had known him, he looked like an ordinary man.
Afterward, everyone left except us.
A tiny white box containing Daniel's ashes rested near the altar.
Adrian approached slowly.
“Can I?”
I nodded.
He placed his hand on the box.
His shoulders shook.
I turned away.
His grief did not erase what he had done.
But neither did what he had done make his grief fake.
Human beings are cruelly complicated that way.
“I bought him a baseball glove,” Adrian whispered.
I closed my eyes.
“He wasn't going to need one for years.”
“I know.”
“It was in my office.”
I said nothing.
“I kept imagining teaching him.”
I looked at him.
“You should have answered the phone.”
His face crumpled.
“I know.”
That was all.
No forgiveness.
No reconciliation.
Just truth.
As I left the church, Noah waited beside the car.
He handed me a tablet.
“You need to see this.”
Security logs.
Eleven months earlier, someone had accessed the Haven archive at 2:13 a.m.
Credential used:
A. VALE — EXECUTIVE MASTER ACCESS.
My heart sank.
Then Noah enlarged another line.
The physical badge used to enter the archive floor belonged to someone else.
CELESTE MARR.
Both credentials had been used within ninety seconds.
Adrian's digital access.
Celeste's physical badge.
That afternoon, I confronted Adrian through our attorneys.
His answer stunned everyone.
“I never gave Celeste my credentials.”
Margaret looked skeptical.
“Your login was used.”
“I know.”
“You expect us to believe someone stole it?”
“No.”
Adrian leaned forward.
“I think I know who gave it to her.”
“Who?”
“Martin.”
Silence.
“Why would Martin have your password?”
“He shouldn't.”
“Then how?”
Adrian looked at me.
“Because three years ago, I made a mistake that had nothing to do with Celeste.”
I felt exhausted.
“What mistake?”
“I authorized Martin to establish an emergency executive access protocol after a cyberattack.”
Margaret's eyes narrowed.
“Shared administrative credentials?”
“Yes.”
“That violates policy.”
“I know.”
“Who knew?”
“Martin. Me. IT security.”
“And Celeste?”
“Not from me.”
I studied Adrian.
“Are you protecting her?”
“No.”
“Because you already protected her for six days.”
His jaw tightened.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
“But Claire, whatever you think of me, I didn't steal Haven.”
“How can I believe you?”
“You shouldn't.”
The answer surprised me.
“Not without evidence.”
He stood.
“Find the evidence.”
Then he left.
That evening, Noah called again.
This time his voice was urgent.
“Claire, someone just tried to remotely delete the archived server logs.”
“Did they succeed?”
“No.”
“Can we trace it?”
“We already did.”
I stood beside Dad's window overlooking the city.
“Who?”
“Martin Keene's office.”
Before I could respond, Noah added:
“But Martin isn't there.”
“Then who is?”
Security footage arrived thirty seconds later.
A woman entered Martin's office wearing a baseball cap and dark coat.
She looked directly toward the camera for half a second.
May you like
Celeste Marr.
And in her hand was a company access card bearing my name.
