Chapter Nine: The Discovery

Katherine

I always trusted my instincts.

And from the very first moment I laid eyes on Eva Sinclair, something felt… off.

She was too polished to be an intern. Too poised. Too perfect... Not the way she looked—though God knows, she looked exactly like her mother. That was the part that rattled me most. The tilt of her chin. The fire in her eyes. The way Damien's gaze kept drifting toward her like a man haunted by a ghost.

Claire.

Her name still makes my stomach clench, even after all these years.

I sat at the edge of my office desk, fingers drumming lightly against the glass. Miranda stood near the door, fidgeting, waiting for me to speak.

"She had the perfect opportunity," I finally said. "Last night. At the gala. Damien was practically melting in her presence. But she said nothing. No dramatic reveal. No 'I'm your long-lost daughter.' Why?"

Miranda folded her arms. "Maybe she's not who we think. Could be a con artist—playing a part."

I looked at her over my shoulder. "Claire's daughter? That's not something you fake. Not with that face."

"But she didn't tell him. Maybe she's scared. Or maybe…" she hesitated, "…maybe she's just a relative. A niece?"

"No," I said sharply. "Claire didn't have siblings. She didn't even have cousins. That child is hers."

I stood, walked toward the window, and stared at the skyline—but it wasn't buildings I saw. It was memories. Claire's soft laughter in the old garden. The way Damien used to look at her like she hung the stars. The same way he was starting to look at Eva.

And I knew then—I had to be sure. Not just for my peace of mind. For survival.

"Find out," I said.

Miranda blinked. "Katherine?"

"Hospital records. Birth certificate. I want it all. Find out who she really is."

Miranda gave a short nod and left the room.

I didn't sit. I couldn't. I just stood there, one hand wrapped around my wine glass, heart thudding too loud in my ears. I told myself it was nerves.

But it was fear.

Fifty-Two Minutes LaterThe door cracked open. Miranda stepped back in, folder in hand.

"I have it," she said.

I snatched the file and flipped it open.

Eva Sinclair. Born March 17, 2003. Mother: Margaret C. Sinclair.

My vision narrowed as I scanned the details. Same hospital. Same city. Claire was supposed to give birth. I remembered—I'd overheard the conversation back then. Claire, fragile and overwhelmed, had vanished after the child was born. Damien thought she took the money and ran. He never looked for her.

He believed the baby had died.

And I never corrected him.

A second page. Hospital logs. Claire's signature—barely legible, but real. I'd seen it too many times to doubt it.

"She's not just Claire's daughter," I whispered. "She's Damien's."

Miranda let out a breath. "If he finds out…"

"He'll give her everything," I said flatly. "The company. His fortune. His legacy. And me? I'll be nothing again. Second place. The woman who stayed while he longed for a ghost."

I pressed a hand to my chest. The heat there wasn't grief. It was rage. Cold, consuming rage.

"But she hasn't told him yet," Miranda said quietly. "Maybe she doesn't want to."

I turned to her. "Or maybe she's playing a long game. Ingratiating herself first. Waiting for the perfect moment."

I clenched my fists.

"I can't let that happen."

Miranda frowned. "What will you do?"

I looked her straight in the eyes.

"Destroy her."

"With what?"

"Evidence. Real, undeniable proof."

Miranda shakes her head. "But we don't have that."

I turn back toward her slowly.

"Not yet," I say, my lips curving into something cold and sure. "But we can create it."

Absolutely. Below is the revised version of the "Private Tech Room" and "Evening – Wolfe Tower" sections of Chapter 8. This time, Katherine doesn't create the fake emails herself — instead, she hires a shady tech contact to do the dirty work, maintaining her polished, calculated image.

The dialogue, pacing, and emotional impact remain the same, but now it flows naturally with this new twist in execution.

Later That Day – My Private Tech RoomI stood in the dim glow of the secure tech room, watching as Nico hunched over the keyboard, his fingers moving fast. I trusted Nico. Not because he was honest—he wasn't—but because I paid him too well to betray me.

"Make sure it sounds like her," I told him, arms crossed, my reflection flickering in the black screen beside us.

"Relax," he muttered without looking up. "I've mimicked better. You said her name is Eva Sinclair, right?"

"Yes. Intern. Department access level three. Tie the messages to Luca Voss. Use language that hints at data theft. I want just enough detail to make it believable, but not so much that it looks too polished."

Nico smirked. "So basically… make her look like an amateur traitor."

"Exactly."

Lines of text popped onto the screen.

"The internal logs are easier to access than I thought."

"Will send offshore account data by next week."

"Damien doesn't suspect anything. He trusts me."

Perfect.

"Add one to her draft folder. Delete it, but make it recoverable."

Nico raised an eyebrow. "Planting a trail, huh?"

"Just one crumb. Enough for someone who's really looking to find it."

"And the rest?"

"Encrypt the others. Then forward them, anonymously, to Arthur Lowell."

He chuckled as he set the time stamps. "Arthur the hawk. Bet he'll go nuclear."

"That's the point."

Within minutes, it was done.

He leaned back, cracking his knuckles. "Anything else?"

"Clean your prints off everything."

He looked mildly offended. "Amateur."

I handed him the envelope I'd prepared—cash, stacked tight.

"This never happened," I said, looking him dead in the eye.

Nico grinned. "What never happened?"

Smart boy.

I watched him pack up and leave through the private service elevator. Once I was alone again, I closed the lid of the laptop and exhaled.

Eva Sinclair would be branded a traitor before she even knew what hit her.

And Damien?

He'd never forgive her.

Not with "proof" in hand.

I smiled slowly, feeling that familiar chill of satisfaction curl through my chest.

Checkmate, darling.

Evening – Wolfe TowerI sipped from my wine glass in the boardroom, calm, composed, already knowing how tonight would unfold.

Arthur Lowell arrived right on cue—five minutes late, like always. Punctual, but never too eager. Just the kind of man who thrived on power plays and policy manuals.

"I received a disturbing file," he said, settling across from me, his tone heavy.

I tilted my head just slightly. "Oh?"

"I hoped it was fake. But the network trail is solid. The language… it's not amateur. This person had real access."

I didn't interrupt. I just let him talk. People like Arthur always wanted to walk you through their outrage.

"I checked her system," he continued. "One of the emails was saved in her draft folder before it was deleted this morning. Matches the one I got."

I finally leaned forward. "Who?"

He took off his glasses, cleaned them slowly. The pause was deliberate.

"Eva Sinclair."

I blinked slowly, just once. "That's… unfortunate."

"She'll be suspended pending a full investigation. I'll inform Damien first thing in the morning."

"No." I stood, stepping between him and the door with calculated urgency. "Let me."

Arthur raised a brow. "Why?"

"She's close to him," I explained. "Too close. If he hears it from you, he'll lash out. But from me… he'll listen."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. But keep it professional."

"Of course," I replied with a graceful smile, already gathering my things.

As I left the room, the sound of my heels tapping across the polished marble floor echoed behind me.

Let Damien believe she betrayed him.

Let him cut her off with the same coldness he used to cut me out when Claire was still alive.

Let him burn his daughter to the ground without even knowing who she really is.

And me?

I'll be right here—poised, loyal, and irreplaceable.