Chapter 6

A week later, the Financial Crimes Unit opened a formal investigation.

When Spencer was escorted from the CaldwellTech lobby and pushed into a police car, it made the local news.

The headline read: CaldwellTech CEO Detained on Suspicion of Corporate Fraud.

From the remand centre, Spencer called me once.

"Mara... please, hire me a lawyer. You know I only lost my head for a while. I still have feelings for you..."

I was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window of my office, watching the traffic below.

"Spencer. When you changed the locks — did you still have feelings for me then?"

"When you threw my phone — did you?"

"When you hit me?"

Silence on the line.

"Get your own lawyer. You're nothing to do with me now."

I hung up.

Vivienne — the woman who was actually Vera Crook — was released on bail and tried to find new work.

Dozens of applications. Not one survived a background check.

Suspected fraud. Falsified credentials. The labels, once attached, wouldn't come off.

She reached out to the ex-husband she'd cleaned out. His new wife was pregnant with twins.

He said one thing to her on the phone: "Vera. You reap what you sow."

She tried launching a streaming channel — sympathy content, selling products.

Her first broadcast lasted three hours and drew eighty thousand viewers.

Every detail had already been dug up and posted: the fake degree, the marriage scam, the boardroom footage of her and Spencer tearing into each other.

The comments were merciless.

Zero sales.

She ended the stream in tears.

The divorce was simpler than I expected.

Spencer signed from the remand centre.

When I walked out of the solicitor's office, the sky was very blue.

I looked at the papers in my hand.

Divorce finalised.

I looked at those words for several seconds.

Then I smiled.

Two years later.

Forbes UK named me the cover feature: Mara Davenport, Davenport Capital — Britain's Most Influential Young Investor.

Julian saw the issue and said: "The photographer did fine. But you look better in person."

Then he changed tack immediately: "Which, honestly, is a modest bar. The bone structure does most of the work."

I gave him a look.

He corrected himself immediately. "Joking. You're the most beautiful. Objectively."

"That wasn't convincing."

"Then let me be more precise: Mara Davenport, you are the smartest, most capable, most objectively stunning investor I have ever encountered. Without exception. And choosing me was the second-best decision you've ever made."

"What was the first?"

"Divorcing Spencer Caldwell."

Julian had chased me for eight months.

Relentlessly. Absurdly.

On day one, he sent flowers. I sent them back. He told me my taste was broken.

On day two, he showed up in a sports car and parked in front of my office entrance. I went out the back door.

On day three, he sat in my office and refused to leave. He said he'd set up a satellite office there if I didn't agree to a date.

On day four, I agreed to dinner.

He ate three bites and set his chopsticks down. "Your palate is too restrained. That'll need to change."

I said: "I haven't agreed to anything."

He said: "It's inevitable."

And then he waited for the inevitable.

Eight months.

One night in the eighth month, it was raining.

I left the office at eleven. Julian was standing under the streetlight outside.

No umbrella. His suit was soaked through. He was holding an umbrella.

"You're insane," I said.

"Occupational hazard," he said. "The cause is you. Untreatable."

He held out the umbrella.

"Mara. Anyone who doesn't choose me is making a mistake. Want me to refer you to an optometrist?"

So I took the umbrella.

One evening we tried a new Japanese restaurant.

Coming out afterward, the street was a little congested.

A food delivery courier was crouched by the curb, swapping out a battery. His bike was parked on the pavement beside the steps.

I didn't pay attention. I was already walking toward the car park with Julian's arm in mine.

The courier stood up.

I stopped walking.

Spencer.

He'd lost weight. His hair was a mess. His face had aged.

He saw me.

His mouth opened slightly.

But in the end, nothing came out.

He lowered his head, refastened his delivery box, swung a leg over the bike, and disappeared into the flow of traffic.

Julian's hand tightened around mine. "See something?"

I got into the car and buckled my seatbelt.

"Nothing."

Julian started the engine.

I looked down and touched my stomach, where the curve had just started to show.

Fourth-month scan next week. Julian had already circled the date in the calendar, with a note below it:

Take Mara to her favourite dumpling place after.

The wind coming through the window was warm.

I reached my hand out into it for a moment.

Then I pulled it back in.

Julian was already holding it.

His grip was firm.

Very firm.