Chapter 12
The fourth-floor hallway was quiet, lined with dark wooden doors bearing minimalist brass numbers. Arthur stopped in front of suite 408, the exact address listed in the private investigator's dossier. He stood motionless for a moment, his hand hovering just an inch away from the heavy oak surface before rapping his knuckles sharply against the wood three times. Inside, the muffled sound of footsteps paused instantly. A second later, the door swung open, revealing David Henderson. David looked older, his hair slightly unkempt, wearing a casual gray sweater over dark jeans, his expression shifting from mild irritation to absolute, frozen shock as he recognized the two men standing in the hallway.
"Dad?" David whispered, his hand gripping the edge of the door so tightly his knuckles turned white. "What... how did you find me?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately. He looked past his son into the sunlit loft apartment, taking in the expensive camera gear, the high-end computer monitors, and the sleek modern furniture—all bought with the money stolen from him and Elena. The sight of David living comfortably on the fruits of betrayal ignited a cold, steady flame of fury in Arthur’s chest, but he kept his voice remarkably controlled, stepping across the threshold uninvited.
"We need to talk, David," Arthur said, his tone dangerously calm as Miller stepped in right behind him, closing the door softly to ensure privacy.
David backed away slowly, retreating into the center of the spacious room, his eyes darting frantically toward the door before realizing there was no easy escape with a veteran police officer blocking the exit. "You shouldn't have come here, Dad. Everything I did... it was business. The old studio was failing, and I repositioned our assets."
"You stole fifty thousand dollars of my retirement savings and cleaned out Elena's personal bank accounts before vanishing into thin air," Arthur said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "Don't talk to me about business, David. You're a thief."
David’s facade of cool corporate detachment cracked, a flash of defensive panic crossing his features. "Elena didn't know what she was doing! She was holding us back with her rigid artistic principles. I built this new operation from scratch, and I’m paying back every cent once the corporate contracts clear."
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"You aren't paying back a damn thing," a new voice echoed sharply from the open doorway behind them.
Both men whipped their heads around in astonishment. Standing in the doorway, having flown up on a later flight funded by her own savings and a grim determination to face her tormentor directly, was Elena. She wore her green jacket over black pants and brown boots, her dark hair neatly tied back, looking every bit the fierce professional ready to reclaim her life.
