Chapter 3 - Someone Inside Reed Global
By the time Reed Global’s jet touched down in Chicago, the internet had already married me six different ways.
BILLIONAIRE CEO SECRETLY WEDS EMPLOYEE IN VEGAS.
REED HEIR’S MYSTERY BRIDE.
WHO IS AVERY COLLINS?
The worst headline came from a financial gossip site.
ICE KING MELTS FOR JUNIOR EXECUTIVE.
I stared at my phone.
“I hate people.”
Graham sat across from me, reading a board packet.
“You’ll recover.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Somebody found my college yearbook photo.”
He looked up.
“Which one?”
“That is not the correct question.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Are you enjoying this?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m enjoying one part.”
“What part?”
“You glaring at your phone like you can sue the internet personally.”
“I might.”
“You’ll need Margaret.”
“Margaret probably already has paperwork.”
“She does.”
Of course she did.
The jet slowed.
Outside, gray Chicago morning pressed against the windows.
I had spent the flight learning two uncomfortable truths.
First: marriage certificates were much easier to obtain in Nevada than annulments were emotionally convenient.
Second: Graham Reed slept very little.
He had spent nearly three hours reviewing security reports, takeover filings and board emails.
Never complained.
Never leaned back.
Never closed his eyes.
When I finally asked whether he was tired, he said, “Later.”
Later seemed to be where Graham stored every human need.
Elias met us at a private terminal.
“There are reporters at headquarters.”
Graham didn’t break stride.
“How many?”
“Twenty.”
“Employees?”
“Mostly inside.”
“Board?”
“Emergency session at noon.”
“What about Julian?”
“Already there.”
That stopped Graham for half a second.
I noticed.
“Your uncle moves fast.”
“He always has.”
We drove downtown in a black SUV.
I watched the skyline rise.
Home should have felt reassuring.
Instead every familiar street looked different.
Someone inside my company had forged my signature.
Someone had broken into my room.
Somebody knew the marriage would stop a control transfer.
That required information very few people possessed.
When we reached Reed Global’s headquarters, reporters crowded the entrance.
Elias took us through the underground garage.
The elevator doors opened directly onto the executive floor.
Natalie nearly tackled me.
“You’re alive.”
“Apparently.”
She hugged me, then held me at arm’s length.
“You married him?”
Across the floor, Graham stopped walking.
Natalie lowered her voice.
“Oh God, he heard me.”
“He always hears everything.”
“I married him,” I whispered.
“On purpose?”
“Define purpose.”
Her eyes widened.
“I need three hours and alcohol.”
“No alcohol.”
“Coffee?”
“Industrial amounts.”
A man stepped out of the boardroom.
Silver hair.
Tailored navy suit.
Pleasant face.
Julian Reed looked less like a villain than anyone had a right to.
He smiled at Graham first.
“Nephew.”
“Julian.”
Then his attention moved to me.
“Avery.”
He took my hand before I could stop him.
His eyes dropped to the ring.
“So the rumors are true.”
“They usually aren’t.”
“Good answer.”
He kissed the air near my cheek.
Graham’s posture changed.
Barely.
I felt it anyway.
Julian noticed too.
Interesting.
“I always wondered what sort of woman could make Graham do something spontaneous,” Julian said.
“This wasn’t exactly a beach tattoo.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I’m sure the board will enjoy hearing the full romantic story.”
Graham stepped between us.
“The board will hear what’s relevant.”
Julian smiled.
“There he is.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“My nephew has always believed information is a resource to be rationed.”
That hit suspiciously close to my complaints.
Julian’s eyes held mine.
“Careful, Avery. Graham protects things by locking them away.”
Graham said nothing.
Which made it worse.
Julian walked into the boardroom.
I turned.
“Is he always like that?”
“Yes.”
“Charming?”
“Dangerous.”
“He could say the same about you.”
“He does.”
At noon, fourteen board members sat around a table long enough to land a small airplane.
I sat beside Graham.
Julian sat opposite.
Margaret presented the trust activation.
Then the questions started.
“How do we know this marriage wasn’t arranged purely to manipulate voting rights?”
“When did Ms. Collins learn about the succession clause?”
“Was she compensated?”
“Does she continue to report to Mr. Reed?”
That one came from Evelyn Reed.
Graham’s aunt.
“She doesn’t,” Graham said.
I turned.
“We haven’t discussed that.”
He kept looking at Evelyn.
“She will be reassigned.”
I kicked him beneath the table.
Hard.
His eyebrow moved.
Just enough.
Julian saw.
He looked delighted.
Evelyn leaned toward me.
“Ms. Collins, do you understand how this appears?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And appearances don’t change forged documents.”
Silence.
Margaret slid copies across the table.
“The attempted proxy transfer bears a forged signature.”
Julian lifted his copy.
“My name appears here.”
“Yes.”
“I assume that makes me a suspect.”
“No one said that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
He turned to me.
“Did you authorize me?”
“No.”
“Have we ever discussed Reed voting rights?”
“No.”
“Then someone wants either my control or my blame.”
Smart.
Very smart.
The meeting lasted two hours.
No resolution.
Afterward, Natalie dragged me into my office.
Or what used to be my office.
IT technicians were imaging my computer.
“What are they doing?”
“Security audit.”
“Who authorized it?”
“Graham.”
Of course.
I walked straight to his office.
He was on the phone.
I entered anyway.
“Call you back.”
He hung up.
“You locked my system.”
“Yes.”
“You reassigned my team.”
“Temporarily.”
“You told the board I don’t report to you.”
“You can’t while we’re legally married.”
“That part actually makes sense.”
He waited.
“I hate that.”
“I assumed.”
“But you don’t get to bury my work.”
“It isn’t buried.”
“You think I’m going home.”
“I think Elias is taking you to a secure apartment.”
“No.”
“Avery.”
“No.”
His face cooled.
“There is an active threat.”
“And there’s an active investigation tied to work I understand better than anyone on this floor.”
“I have investigators.”
“They missed eleven years of fraud.”
That hurt.
I intended it to.
He leaned back.
“You want access?”
“Yes.”
“To everything?”
“Yes.”
“You may find things you don’t like.”
“I woke up married to you. My standards for comfortable information have changed.”
He stared for several seconds.
Then opened a drawer.
A keycard landed on the desk.
“War room. Twenty-seventh floor.”
I picked it up.
“That easy?”
“No.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You work with Elias.”
“Fine.”
“And you don’t leave the building alone.”
“Fine.”
“You answer your phone.”
“Probably.”
“Avery.”
“Fine.”
His expression softened.
“Thank you.”
That was more alarming than the rules.
I left.
The war room contained six analysts, Margaret, two forensic accountants and enough monitors to run an airport.
For four hours, I worked.
No romance.
No dramatic revelations.
Just data.
That was how real conspiracies looked most of the time.
Spreadsheets.
Invoices.
Calendar entries.
Metadata.
Boring things arranged by people hoping nobody would stare long enough to notice the pattern.
I noticed.
At 6:17 p.m., I found the first impossible thing.
My corporate calendar showed a private meeting three weeks ago with Mason Pike, one of Southwest Transit’s former finance directors.
I had never met him.
Yet the entry showed attendance confirmed.
I called Natalie.
“Was I in Chicago on August fifth?”
“You were in Phoenix.”
“Sure?”
“You complained about the airport carpet for twenty minutes.”
Correct.
I checked the calendar metadata.
Edited yesterday.
9:42 p.m.
While I was at dinner in Vegas.
Someone had added a fake meeting.
Why?
I opened the attached notes.
One line.
COLLINS CONFIRMED ACCESS TO HISTORICAL ARCHIVE.
My stomach turned.
“Margaret.”
She came over.
“Look.”
Her face changed.
“Print that.”
I kept digging.
Then found an outgoing email.
From me.
Sent to an external address.
SUBJECT: ACCESS CONDITIONS.
The body contained five sentences I had never written.
One stood out.
Payment will be expected after control shifts.
They weren’t just forging my signature.
They were building a story.
A bribed employee.
An ambitious woman.
A secret marriage.
I could already imagine the headlines.
My phone buzzed.
Graham.
Where are you?
War room.
Stay there.
I typed:
Bossy.
His reply came instantly.
Alive.
I hated that one word could affect me.
At 7:03, one analyst recovered hotel access logs.
My floor had twelve minutes missing from the central security archive.
Deleted manually.
But a housekeeping backup server contained partial footage.
We watched.
9:51 p.m.
My hotel hallway.
A man in maintenance clothes entered frame.
Same man from the photograph.
He used a master key.
Entered my room.
Six minutes later, another person appeared.
Not maintenance.
Business clothes.
Dark coat.
Face turned toward the camera.
The image froze.
I stopped breathing.
I knew him.
Not Julian.
Not a board member.
Thomas Vale.
Graham’s chief of staff.
The man who had managed Graham’s schedule for seven years.
The man who sat ten feet outside Graham’s office every day.
The man who had personally handed me the Southwest acquisition files three months earlier.
Margaret whispered, “Jesus.”
The war room door opened.
Graham walked in.
He saw the frozen image.
His face emptied.
I looked at him.
“You trusted him.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
May you like
Graham stared at Thomas Vale on the monitor.
“With everything.”
