Page 51 of Falling for the Grump Billionaire

The files finally decrypt, and the tension in the room becomes almost tangible. The whistleblower wasn’t bluffing.

The documents outline payments from a shadow account linked to Mercer, funneled through subsidiaries into what appears to be a dummy corporation. The trail is intricate, deliberate, and damning.

“This,” I say, pointing to the screen, “isn’t just sabotage. Mercer’s been bleeding your company dry for years.”

Dominic leans over my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck as he studies the screen. “And this corporation,” he says, tapping the name, “it’s registered overseas. Cayman Islands. That’s Mercer’s style—keep everything far enough away to avoid suspicion.”

I glance up at him, surprised. “You’ve suspected him before, haven’t you?”

He straightens, his expression hardening. “I’ve suspected a lot of people. Mercer was just careful enough to stay out of the spotlight—until now.”

“Then this is it,” I say, determination hardening my voice. “This is the proof you need to bring him down.”

But Dominic doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stares at the screen, his jaw clenched.

“What is it?” I ask, stepping closer to him.

“If Mercer’s involved, he’s not working alone,” Dominic says, his voice low. “Someone’s been protecting him, keeping him hidden. If we push too hard, we’ll tip our hand before we have the full picture.”

The weight of his words settles over me like a lead blanket. He’s right. Mercer might be a key player, but he’s not the endgame.

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“We tread carefully,” Dominic says, his gaze locking onto mine. “And we trust no one.”

The Next Morning

The eerie sensation of being watched clings to me, heavier than before. I’ve checked my inbox three times already, hoping for another email. Nothing.

No follow-up. No additional files. Nothing but silence.

“What’s wrong?” Dominic asks, his tone sharp as he steps into the living room.

“The whistleblower hasn’t responded,” I say, turning my laptop toward him. “They said they’d send more.”

His expression darkens, his eyes narrowing at the screen. “Or someone got to them.”

The thought makes my stomach churn. I bite my lip, trying to steady my voice. “We need to find out who they are. If they’re in danger, we can’t just sit here.”

Dominic doesn’t argue, which surprises me. Instead, he grabs his phone and dials Adrian.

“Run a trace on this email,” he orders, rattling off the address. “I want to know where it came from and who sent it. Now.”

Adrian’s response is swift and efficient, as always. “I’m on it,” he says before the call ends.

By Midday

Adrian calls back with news that sends a chill down my spine.

“The email was sent from a private server,” he says, his voice clipped. “But the IP address traces back to an apartment complex downtown.”

“Do you have an exact address?” Dominic asks, his tone icy.

“I do,” Adrian says. “But there’s a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Dominic demands.

“The place has been ransacked,” Adrian says grimly. “Whoever sent that email—they’re gone.”

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