Page 7 of Flare
Feeling hopeful, she opened a folder named Asset Protection Strategy – Silverwood, only to find a list of subfolders with extremely unhelpful names.
Teeth gritted with frustration, she clicked a subfolder named KB_Silverwood_Q4_vFINAL.
When the password box popped up, she entered the most recent password Andrew had given her.
Knowing Andrew, a permit status spreadsheet and the zoning approval paperwork could be in any of the PDFs or spreadsheets.
Instead of the contractor bids and supplier contracts she’d been hoping for, she found pages of invoices. Most were from small companies in Idaho, Montana, Washington, and Oregon.
And the invoices didn’t seem to be related to Silverwood, or any other of Brunborn Holdings & Estates’ construction projects. There were no mentions of properties, inspections, or permits.Just products listed as“specialty meat” or“premium wild harvest.” The dollar amounts were massive.
She frowned. Andrew’s business handled high-end real estate; there was no reason for it to be importing exotic game. Unless…
Emily opened DisbursementMap_FisherRun+GCarea.pdf, which turned out to be another multi-page document. The first page was an invoice for“3,500 lbs. WGM, frozen.”
She scrolled to the bottom and read the recipient: a high-end Seattle steakhouse, flagged in the memo line with“discretion required.” The next invoice referenced a drop-off at a“secure location” in rural Idaho. Another referenced“Trophy Pieces.”
A dull throb bloomed just behind her temples, tightening like a band. None of this had anything to do with the luxury real estate market.
She forced herself to keep clicking.
In BPR_Sourced.xlsx, she found a spreadsheet crowded with names, addresses, dates, and codes that looked suspiciously like route numbers. A tab labeled“Active” listed deliveries to a handful of restaurants and private clubs in Salt Lake City, with two addresses marked as“VIP—HANDLE WITH CARE.”
Whatever this is, it’s not helping me finish the investor presentation, she thought with irritation.
She was about to close the file when she noticed a second page: a notarized statement granting“Executive Discretion” to Andrew Brunborn over all operations“including but not limited to acquisitions, transport, and sensitive client handling in compliance with family protocols and traditions.” And it was signed by none other than Katherine Brunborn herself.
Seriously confused now, Emily scanned the remaining files for anything that might clarify the situation. But as she read on, confusion turned into sickening realization.
KB_MEMO_Silverwood_Accounting.pdf turned out to be a memo from Grandma Katherine, advising Andrew on how to launder the profits from the meat and trophy sales through the Silverwood development project.
Emily jerked back from the computer as if it might bite her.Andrew is neck-deep in some kind of organized crime ring?!
She felt sick.Oh. My. God. If the whole family’s in on it—even Grandma Katherine—what does that mean for me?
For the past eighteen months, she’d worked side by side with Andrew, scheduled his appointments, answered his calls. Slept in his bed. Made plans with him about their future together.
And I let his family walk all over me because they made me believe I wasn’t good enough.
Sudden rage boiled up inside her.Andrew lied to me! They all lied to me!
And I was stupid enough to fall for it.
What do I do now?
Emily got to her feet, marched over to the office supply drawer, and grabbed one of the blank USB drives they used for bringing backup copies of presentations to clients.
Her heart pounding, she plugged in the drive to Andrew’s PC and copied every file and folder. Not just the suspicious-looking ones, butallof them. Who knew what other dark secrets lay concealed inside seemingly innocent filenames?
The operation took minutes, but it felt like hours. Each tick of the progress bar was a countdown to…what? She didn’t know anymore.
All she could think about was how dumb she’d been to think of Andrew as her Prince Charming.
When the file transfer finally finished, she went back to her desk and pulled out her purse. She shoved the drive deep into the zipped interior pocket she used to store her tampons. It felt like a tiny ticking bomb.
Her gaze fell on the row of sticky notes along the side of her monitor. The one on top read:“Next week: final dress fitting, RSVP headcount to caterers.” The one below it said,“No raspberries. GB hates.”
She stared at the notes, her throat tight, a sharp brass spike of pain hammering through her skull. After the upheaval of Mom’s death, Emily had hoped Andrew could give her a home and a family to replace the one she’d lost when Mom died.
