Chapter 84: The Phone Call

Elsewhere in the city, Chris Westward slammed his fist against his heavy mahogany desk, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his face ached.

Karla Silva was proving to be far more troublesome than he had ever anticipated. The court-ordered discovery process was now forcing his hand, legally compelling him to lay bare all of his financial records, and his high-priced legal team was running out of maneuvers to obstruct it.

Chris leaned back in his leather executive chair, inhaling deeply through his nose as he fought to keep his soaring temper under wraps. His eyes burned with a cold fury, and his sandy brown hair was slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it one too many times. In front of him, a crystal tumbler of expensive whiskey sat entirely untouched.

He wanted control right now, not a drink to numb the edge.

The sheer notion that Megan would actually attempt to walk out on him made his blood boil.

No one leaves me.

He was the one who dictated the terms of a relationship. He was the one who decided when a woman was no longer worth his time, his considerable effort, or his money. It was never the other way around.

There was absolutely no goddamn way she was pulling this off by herself.

Megan is no genius, he mused bitterly, she never could have orchestrated a disappearance this clean, let alone figured out how to support herself without my signature on the accounts.

It had to be the contractor. He was the only anomaly in the equation that made any mathematical sense.

Chris’s thoughts hardened. Well, he’ll be dealt with soon enough.

Chris had initially dismissed the idea that a lowly, blue-collar laborer could ever catch the eye of someone as refined, elegant, and meticulously groomed as his wife. But as he stared at the wall, a darker realization set in.

Perhaps I underestimated the asset ... or perhaps I vastly overestimated my wife’s baseline standards.

He took a swig of his drink and set it back down.

Ungrateful bitch, he thought, the words tasting like venom. After everything I sacrificed to elevate her.

He had single-handedly rescued Megan and her trainwreck of a mother from a mountain of crushing debt, physically pulling them out from under the thumbs of backwoods loan sharks and low-life gangsters who likely would have ended their lives years ago.

He had married her, insulated her in a world of absolute luxury, and transformed her into an esteemed society wife whom women across the state desperately envied.

I could have left her to rot in that literal shit-hole trailer park in South Georgia.

Chris vividly recalled the day he first laid eyes on her. He had been down in Metter, Georgia, closing a deal with a high-profile client, and had stopped at a generic local diner for a quick morning coffee.

She was just a twenty-two-year-old piece of trailer trash pouring coffee, he reminded himself.

She had been his waitress that morning. She was completely devoid of class, etiquette, or sophistication. Yet, Chris had recognized the raw structural potential in her physical beauty. He saw a blank canvas, something malleable that he could personally sculpt into a masterpiece fitting for his arm. That very afternoon, he had decided she would eventually bear his last name.

And now, after providing her with the best life a girl like her could ever dream of, she had vanished. For that treason, Megan, her insufferable attorney, and the contractor were going to pay a catastrophic price.

If he could cut off her assets and choke off her financial oxygen, leaving her completely exposed, vulnerable, and destitute, she would have no choice.

She’ll come crawling back on her knees.

And when she did, he would ensure she regretted the day she ever tried to cross him.

Then there was the matter of Moss. The sheer audacity of a common handyman daring to step into a Westward marriage, acting as if he belonged in Chris’s social sphere, as if they were equals. It was utterly intolerable.

Chris had spent his entire career stepping on men like Moss to ascend to the top. This would be no different.

Chris didn’t actually have concrete evidence that Jalen Moss was involved. His private investigators still hadn’t spotted him and Megan together nor connected any financial transactions between them. But Chris was convinced that Moss was helping or was in some kind of relationship with Megan that began during the wine cellar construction.

The bastard actually thought he could steal what belongs to me.

Chris was still confident in his ability to beat Karla Silva. He possessed the institutional connections, the generational wealth, and the quiet resources required to make inconvenient problems permanently dissolve and give Silva nothing to work with.

Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out his encrypted burner phone and dialed a secure, unlisted number. It rang twice before his primary private investigator, Douglas Cain, answered.

“Mr. Westward.”

“Cain,” Chris said, his voice dropping into a cold, commanding register. “I need a change in strategy. I’m certain the contractor was the catalyst in my wife’s departure, but the current file isn’t deep enough. I want a complete structural teardown of this man’s life. I want his personal finances, his sub-contracts, his daily associations. Who does he sleep with? Who are the other women he’s keeping on the side?”

The line went quiet for a brief beat as Cain gathered his notes. “Sir, my team has already thoroughly audited Moss’s banking records. Operationally, his contracting business is entirely tight. There are no irregular cash withdrawals or sudden anomalies suggesting he’s funding Mrs. Westward’s relocation. However ... we did uncover an entirely different pattern that is highly unusual.”

Chris narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on the phone. “Explain.”

Cain cleared his throat. “Jalen Moss is a heavy operative with women, sir. While we can’t confirm if he is involved with your wife, we CAN confirm that he is currently involved with at least five other women simultaneously. And these aren’t casual, passing interactions either; our telemetry shows highly intimate, deeply entrenched relationships. Furthermore, several of these targets are incredibly well-connected.”

Chris leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “Go on.”

“One of them is the daughter of Georgia House Representative, Tim Horner,” Cain detailed. “There is also a prominent local journalist for Channel 2 Action News, a high-ranking nonprofit professional where Jim Harbor works, and there’s a senior marketing employee at a competing firm. We’re combing to see if there are others.”

A cruel, razor-sharp smirk slowly spread across Chris’s face. A serial womanizer. Perfect.

“We haven’t fully mapped out the operational extent of their collective involvement yet,” Cain continued, “but we have high-resolution photographic evidence of him with these various women in highly compromising, private environments. We’re finalizing the background profiles now, but the takeaway is clear: Moss is running a massive, high-risk network of women. It’s an incredibly fragile setup. If one domino falls, the entire structure collapses.”

Chris’s smirk widened into a cold grin. “That’s not just a pattern, Cain. That is pristine leverage.”

Cain paused, carefully measuring his next words. “Sir, how exactly do you want us to deploy this?”

Chris leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting lazily up toward the crown molding on his ceiling. “I want you to find the hairline fracture in his foundation. If he’s spreading his resources that thin across that many targets, someone is bound to feel slighted. Find me the woman who feels betrayed. Find me a toxic financial overlap I can exploit, or a public scandal tailored to ruin his professional credibility. Simply removing Moss from the board isn’t the goal anymore, Cain. I want him entirely dismantled. Find the thread and pull it. Hell, maybe we can use this to turn him and my wife against each other.”

“Understood, Mr. Westward,” Cain replied methodically. “I’ll reallocate our field assets immediately. We’ll have the complete leverage package on your desk by tomorrow morning.”

“See that you do.”

Chris ended the call, tossed the burner phone onto the mahogany surface, and reached for the crystal tumbler. He took a slow, deliberate sip of the burning liquor this time, his eyes completely devoid of mercy.

By the time I am finished with this, Megan will wish she was dead.

That Friday at her office, Karla was reviewing case notes when her phone buzzed repeatedly. An unknown number. She hesitated, then answered.

“Ms. Silva?” a deep voice asked.

Karla frowned. “Who is this?”

“Someone who thought you should know, Westward is doubling down. Your client and her ... associate are being watched.”

Karla sat up straight. “What do you mean watched?”

“I mean Westward has hired more investigators. Moss is being followed. They’re digging into his business, his personal life, his finances, and yours.”