Chapter 3: The Perfect Enemy
Chapter 3: The Perfect Enemy
Claire Whitlock had never been humiliated before.
Not publicly.
Not in front of forty of Providence's wealthiest families.
Certainly not by the man who had slipped a three-carat diamond onto her finger six weeks earlier.
She sat alone in the penthouse of the Whitlock Tower, staring at the engagement ring glimmering beneath the morning sun.
It no longer felt like a promise.
It felt like a warning.
A crystal wineglass shattered against the marble fireplace.
"I made him look compassionate," she muttered through clenched teeth. "He should have thanked me."
Her assistant, Olivia Grant, remained perfectly still near the doorway.
"Miss Whitlock..."
Claire looked up sharply.
"Say it."
"I don't think Mr. Carver saw it that way."
Claire laughed bitterly.
"No. He saw a pregnant maid."
She stood and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Providence Harbor.
"I've spent two years building the image of the perfect fiancée. Charity galas. Hospital donations. Foundation dinners." Her voice grew colder. "One servant cries, and suddenly I'm the villain."
Olivia hesitated.
"What would you like me to do?"
Claire turned.
"I want to know everything about Hannah Brooks."
By noon, Olivia had hired one of the city's most discreet private investigators.
His name was Victor Sloan.
Former homicide detective.
Now the man wealthy families hired when they wanted secrets without police reports.
He arrived carrying a thin leather briefcase.
"You asked for speed."
"I asked for answers."
Claire gestured toward the chair opposite her.
"Sit."
Victor opened a folder.
"Hannah Brooks. Twenty-seven years old."
He slid a photograph across the desk.
It showed Hannah leaving St. Matthew's Hospital that morning in a wheelchair, Daniel walking beside her.
Claire's jaw tightened.
"He stayed all night?"
"So I've been told."
She looked away before her anger became visible.
"What else?"
"Married."
Claire nodded impatiently.
"I know."
"Widowed eight months ago."
"I know that too."
Victor continued.
"Husband: Aaron Brooks. Harbor mechanic. Officially died in an industrial accident."
Claire frowned.
"Officially?"
Victor met her eyes.
"The report is... unusually clean."
"What does that mean?"
"It means accidents normally leave unanswered questions."
"This one didn't."
"Exactly."
Silence settled over the office.
Claire leaned forward.
"What about the baby?"
"The child is legally presumed to be Aaron Brooks's."
"Presumed?"
"The timing fits."
Claire relaxed slightly.
At least that much made sense.
"Keep going."
Victor flipped another page.
"Hannah has no criminal record."
"No debt?"
"One significant debt."
He handed over another document.
Nearly seventy thousand dollars.
Creditor:
Whitlock Maritime Finance.
Claire stared at the page.
"My family's company?"
"Apparently."
She blinked.
"I've never heard of this."
"The loan was allegedly signed by Aaron Brooks."
Claire studied the signature.
Something about it looked strange.
Not obviously forged.
Just...
Too perfect.
Later that afternoon...
Claire visited Whitlock Shipping Headquarters.
Her father, Charles Whitlock, was reviewing financial reports when she entered without knocking.
"You look upset."
"I need information."
Charles removed his glasses.
"About?"
She placed Aaron's loan documents on his desk.
"Did we lend this man seventy thousand dollars?"
He glanced at the papers.
His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
Only a fraction of a second.
But Claire noticed.
"You recognize it."
"I've seen the file."
"So?"
"It was handled by legal."
"Answer my question."
Charles folded the documents neatly.
"It isn't your concern."
Claire laughed softly.
"It became my concern the moment Daniel defended his widow."
Charles's eyes narrowed.
"What happened?"
She told him everything.
Every humiliating detail.
When she finished, her father remained unusually quiet.
Finally he asked,
"Daniel touched her?"
"He carried her out of the mansion."
"In front of everyone?"
"Yes."
Charles slowly stood.
"Interesting."
Claire frowned.
"That's all you have to say?"
"No."
He walked toward the window.
"I have one instruction."
"What?"
"Stay away from Hannah Brooks."
Claire stared.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Daniel embarrassed me because of her!"
"And now I'm telling you not to provoke her again."
Claire's voice sharpened.
"Why?"
Charles turned slowly.
"Because some people become dangerous without realizing it."
She searched his face.
For the first time in years...
Her father looked worried.
That evening...
Claire ignored his warning.
Instead, she drove to a small apartment building on the east side of Providence.
Hannah's former home.
The elderly landlady answered the door.
"I'm looking for Hannah Brooks."
"She moved months ago."
"I know."
Claire smiled warmly.
"I was an old friend."
The woman softened immediately.
"Poor girl."
Claire tilted her head.
"What do you mean?"
"First her brother disappeared."
Claire's smile vanished.
"Brother?"
"Caleb."
The old woman sighed.
"Then her husband died."
Claire remained perfectly still.
"I didn't know she had a brother."
"He always looked after her."
"When did he disappear?"
"A couple months before Aaron passed."
Claire thanked the woman and returned to her car.
She didn't drive away.
Instead, she opened her notebook.
One missing brother.
One dead husband.
One pregnant widow.
One maid who somehow earned Daniel Carver's protection overnight.
The pieces didn't fit.
Meanwhile...
At St. Matthew's Hospital...
Hannah sat by the window, watching rain streak across the glass.
Ben had spent the afternoon telling her stories from his history lessons until she laughed for the first time in days.
Now he had gone home with Martin.
The room was quiet.
Daniel entered carrying a paper bag.
"I brought dinner."
"You didn't have to."
"So you keep telling me."
He handed her a container of homemade chicken soup.
"Martin insisted."
She smiled.
"He worries too much."
"So do I."
The words escaped before Daniel realized he'd spoken them aloud.
Their eyes met.
An awkward silence followed.
Finally Hannah asked,
"Did you find anything else?"
Daniel hesitated.
"Not enough."
"But something."
"The surveillance footage from the night Aaron died was erased."
Her fingers tightened around the spoon.
"Erased?"
"Someone wanted that night forgotten."
She whispered,
"I knew it."
Before Daniel could answer, his phone vibrated.
Marcus.
He stepped into the hallway.
"What is it?"
"We've got a problem."
Daniel's expression hardened.
"Talk."
"Someone has been asking questions about Hannah."
"Who?"
"A private investigator."
Daniel's eyes darkened.
"Working for?"
Marcus paused.
"Claire Whitlock."
Daniel said nothing.
His silence was far more dangerous than anger.
"Do you want me to stop him?"
"No."
"Then?"
"I want to know what she's looking for."
Across the city...
Claire sat alone in her penthouse, pinning photographs onto a large corkboard.
Aaron Brooks.
Caleb Monroe.
Hannah Brooks.
Daniel Carver.
She connected them with red string.
Then she wrote one sentence across the top in bold black ink.
WHY DOES DANIEL CARE?
She stared at the board for a long time.
Then another thought crept into her mind.
If Hannah had taken Daniel's attention...
Then taking Hannah away...
...might be the fastest way to get it back.
A slow smile spread across Claire's face.
It was not the smile of a woman planning an apology.
It was the smile of someone preparing for war.
Outside her penthouse windows, thunder rolled over Providence Harbor.
And in the darkness below, someone watched the Whitlock building through the lens of a camera.
The anonymous figure lowered the binoculars and made a single phone call.
May you like
"The game has begun," a distorted voice said.
"It's time to eliminate the maid."
