Chapter 3
The email arrived at 11:47 PM, just as I was closing my laptop after another futile attempt to make sense of my diminished role at the company I'd helped build. Rebecca's subject line was simple: "You need to see this."
My hands trembled as I opened the attachments. Screenshot after screenshot of Hudson's corporate credit card statements, each one a knife twist in my chest. Maison Laurent—$347. The Ritz Carlton, two nights—$892. Tiffany & Co.—$2,400.
The dates aligned perfectly with Jenesis's schedule. Every romantic dinner, every business trip she'd somehow been included on, every piece of jewelry that sparkled from her ears and throat.
I stared at the Tiffany charge from three days ago—the same day I'd noticed her wearing a new necklace that perfectly complemented those sapphire earrings. My sapphire earrings. The set Hudson had claimed was "one of a kind."
Sleep was impossible. I spent the night pacing our bedroom, Hudson's peaceful breathing a mockery beside me. By morning, I'd memorized every line item, every damning detail of his betrayal dressed up as corporate expenses.
I found him in his office the next morning, coffee steaming on his desk as he reviewed what looked like another one of Jenesis's presentations. The sight of her neat handwriting in the margins made my stomach clench.
"We need to talk," I said, closing the door behind me.
Hudson glanced up, his expression already shifting to annoyance. "About what? I've got the board meeting in twenty minutes."
I placed my phone on his desk, Rebecca's screenshots displayed. "About this."
The color drained from his face, then rushed back in a wave of anger. "Are you fucking kidding me? You're spying on me now?"
"These are company expenses, Hudson. Public record."
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," he snapped, standing so abruptly his chair rolled backward. "You've become paranoid, controlling. You can't trust me to handle a simple business strategy."
"Business strategy?" My voice cracked. "Two thousand dollars at Tiffany is business strategy?"
"Everything I do serves the plan," he said, his tone cold and measured. "Jenesis needs to believe she's won completely. That means selling the performance."
"Performance?" I laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. "You're performing so well you're buying her jewelry?"
"I'm doing what needs to be done while you're falling apart," Hudson said, moving around the desk toward me. "Look at yourself, Alyssa. You're questioning everything, seeing conspiracies where there's strategy. Maybe you need to step back and let me handle this."
The gaslighting was so smooth, so practiced, that for a moment I actually doubted myself. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe this was all part of some elaborate plan I couldn't see.
Then my phone rang.
Catalina's name flashed on the screen, and something in the shrill urgency of the ringtone made my blood freeze.
"Cat?" I answered, already reaching for my keys.
"Alyssa," her voice was weak, breathless. "Something's wrong. My chest—I can't breathe properly."
I was out of Hudson's office before she finished the sentence.
The emergency room was a blur of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. I held Catalina's hand as they wheeled her through a maze of corridors, her face pale and drawn with pain. The monitors beeped steadily, each sound a reminder of how fragile she'd always been.
Dr. Sarah Martinez found me in the waiting room three hours later, her expression grave.
"The echocardiogram shows significant deterioration," she said, settling into the plastic chair beside me. "Catalina needs open-heart surgery. Immediately."
The words hit like physical blows. "How immediately?"
"Within two weeks. Any longer and we're looking at exponentially increased mortality risk." Dr. Martinez's voice was gentle but firm. "The procedure costs $150,000. Your insurance covers roughly half, but we need $80,000 upfront before we can schedule the surgery."
Eighty thousand dollars. My reduced salary meant I had maybe $15,000 in accessible savings. The rest was tied up in investments, retirement accounts, the life Hudson and I had built together.
"Is there any way to—"
"Payment plans are possible for smaller amounts," Dr. Martinez interrupted gently. "But for a procedure this complex, this urgent, we need substantial upfront payment. I'm sorry."
I sat alone in that waiting room for another hour, watching families come and go, calculating and recalculating numbers that never added up to enough. Catalina was everything to me—the sister I'd raised, the reason I'd fought so hard to build a successful life.
And now I might lose her because of my demotion, because of Hudson's scheme, because of choices that had seemed so reasonable just weeks ago.
The next morning, I stood outside Hudson's office again, my hands steady now with desperate purpose. Through the glass wall, I could see him laughing at something on his computer screen, probably another message from Jenesis.
This time, I wasn't here about credit card statements or jewelry purchases.
This time, my sister's life hung in the balance.
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