Christina’s POV
I woke up with a stuffy head, blocked nose, and the kind of hangover that makes you question your life choices. My head pounded like soone was using it for drum practice, my body ached, and my heart kept doing this weird jumpy thing. Sleep deprivation was a bitch.
Hudson’s text glowed on my phone screen. I didn’t reply.
I couldn’t talk to him. Not until I sorted out the tornado in my head.
Franklin was dead.
My father was dead.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to rember the last ti we’d had a conversation that didn’t involve him trying to manipulate or squeeze sothing out of Hudson. The last ti he looked at with anything resembling fatherly affection.
"He never treated us right," Akira growled inside my mind.
"But he was still our father," I replied silently.
Despite everything, despite all the years of comparing to Beatrice, of making feel I wasn’t good enough, of trying to control my life... he was my father. My entire childhood had been spent trying to earn his approval.
"The pack has lost its Alpha," Akira whined softly. Even she was affected. In wolf culture, the death of an Alpha was felt by every mber, regardless of personal relationships.
I could at least spend one day mourning him. Right?
I called Fabrizio to ask for the day off.
No answer.
His hangover was probably worse than mine. I rembered how much he’d chugged last night.
I called Peter Carl instead.
"You and Fab both," he said, not sounding surprised when I told him I wasn’t coming in. "What crazy party did you two hit last night?"
"Just a dinner thing," I mumbled, not wanting to explain.
"No problem. Take all the ti you need. What should I do with the letter, though?"
My eyebrows shot up. "What letter?"
"The one on your desk. Envelope says ’for Christina.’ No sender na, but it’s definitely Fabrizio’s handwriting. He must have left it after you clocked out. Probably so design notes. Want to open it?"
A chill crawled up my spine. "No. I’ll be there soon. Don’t touch it."
"Got it." Peter Carl sounded curious, but I wasn’t in the mood to satisfy his curiosity.
I hung up and imdiately called Inspector Silva.
"I was just about to call you," he said.
The chill turned into a block of ice in my stomach. "Tell ."
"Fabrizio Marchetti has fled the country."
"When?" My mouth went desert dry.
"Early this morning, around 3 AM."
"How? You had people watching him."
"He slipped out on a bus, ditched his phone, likely crossed into Luxembourg, and caught a flight to Sydney. By now, he’s probably in Rarotonga." Silva’s voice was heavy with regret.
"Extradition-free."
"Exactly." Silva sighed. "We were so close. Soone tipped him off."
"Last night at dinner—"
"Not blaming you. Fabrizio had help. Soone with resources to arrange a new passport and quick exit. We’re investigating. anwhile..."
"I need to get to the office."
"Doubt he left anything useful behind."
"He left a letter."
That got Silva’s attention. "I’ll et you there in thirty minutes."
I grabbed a taxi, my mind completely blank. Fabrizio was gone. Just like that.
Even though Silva had no reason to lie, part of couldn’t believe it. The whole ti I was helping with the investigation, playing my part, it never felt real.
"We’re here," the driver announced.
I paid and rushed in, barely nodding at the receptionist before taking the elevator to my floor.
The white envelope sat on my desk, exactly as Peter Carl had described.
Silva wasn’t here yet. He’d probably tell not to touch it, to let forensics handle it.
Screw that.
I ripped it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
Handwritten, just three words: "I’m sorry."
"What’s wrong?" Peter Carl strolled over with coffee in hand. "You look like soone died."
I looked up, stunned by his unintentional accuracy.
Everyone at the company, except , had been kept in the dark about the investigation. Now it would all co out. What would happen to Peter Carl? To everyone else? How would they react when they learned Fabrizio had bankrupted the company and fled instead of facing consequences?
"Been thinking about your pierced openwork collar design," Peter Carl continued, oblivious. "It could work, but we’ll have supplier issues. Everyone’s demanding paynt upfront these days." He shrugged. "They’re all in it for the money. , though?" He thumped his chest proudly. "I live for the art."
My lips felt like sandpaper. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him he’d soon be jobless.
Everyone at Valmont & Cie would be out of work once investors realized the company was just an empty shell. They’d liquidate everything to recover whatever they could.
"Don’t worry, it’ll work out," Peter Carl said, patting my hand. "You look ready to explode. I should tell the boss to stop dumping so much stress on you. Speaking of, where is Fab anyway?"
A knock at the open door interrupted us.
Inspector Silva walked in.
I handed him the envelope silently.
"Who’s this?" Peter Carl asked, frowning.
I looked at him, dreading what ca next but knowing it had to be done.
"Peter, can you gather everyone? I need to make an announcent."
"What’s going on?" His expression darkened as if sensing the approaching storm. "Alright. Give a minute."
Ten minutes later, I stood before my colleagues, took a deep breath, and told them everything.
The reaction was exactly what you’d expect: gasps, frowns, shaking heads, and stunned silence. No one wanted to believe it, but Silva’s presence confird the worst.
He delivered the final blow. "The company is insolvent and will be liquidated. The prosecutor will petition for a compulsory winding-up order."
That’s when the crying started.
Peter Carl found later that afternoon, his eyes red and puffy.
"Christina, you’re the only one who can save us now."
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