He had to rally.
He had to!
The possibility of living her life without Harrison loomed like a cavern that she couldn’t enter. They were a team, a partnership.
More than just husband and wife, they were friends and colleagues. Her strengths were his, and vice versa. When she balked at a challenge, he had her back, and she knew how to encourage him through anything. He was her everything.
But had she been his?
She crossed the room, stopping at one of the windows that overlooked the sprawling estate. It was still early; the sky had hints of pink and purple, reluctant to give up their purview to the blueness of the daytime sky. It was a losing battle. Dawn could never triumph over day.
Mariella confided in Harrison about almost everything. Up until yesterday, she would have said the same of him. She would have sworn until she was blue in the face, and on the lives of her children, that she and Harrison had no secrets. Had she been wrong?
“In certain circles, this person is called the Fixer.” Such a confusing statement that had, at the time, made Mariella impatient with Joe. Only their years of friendship and an affection born of loyalty had kept her quiet after the strange statement, giving him the respect of explaining what the hell he’d been talking about.
The Fixer.
How she’d already come to hate those words! That her husband had a secret business that sounded distinctly unsavory was a truth that kept detonating through her mind. If she’d had any doubts about Joe’s information, the bank account statement had served to support his assertion.
Harrison had a fortune—and not a small one—that he’d kept from his own wife. Not by accident, either, in that way that could be explained by how busy they were. He had created an offshore account in his own name. He had steadfastly failed to mention it to Mariella. And, in the meantime, it had been filled with a hundred million dollars. Where had it all come from? And why had he kept it secret from her, of all people?
Only one reason seemed to make sense, and it was unpalatable as it was frightening.
Harrison Marshall had become involved in something bad. Something dangerous. Something illegal? If that were the case, he would have moved heaven and earth to keep his wife from being implicated. She could see goodness in his motives; she knew Harrison too well to doubt that.
Damn him! Why would he do such a thing? They had more money than they knew what to do with. Power, too, and prestige to boot. Why would he get involved with this mysterious Fixer? What could he have thought he stood to gain?
Her eyes skimmed the room. No signs of the dream remained. It was calm.
Almost as though her body was working independently of her mind, she walked to their wardrobe and stepped inside. The lingering hint of Harrison was a punch in the face. She groaned softly, running her fingers over one of his shirts, starched and ready for him to slip into. She unclipped it from the hanger and pulled it closer, pressing her nose into the folds and inhaling deeply. Something made a papery sound, and she pulled away.
Her heart was speeding up. Did it know something she didn’t?
A knotty web of secrets was wrapping around her; she could feel it even as she tried to believe everything would be okay.
Who was the Fixer? The question was a loop in her mind.
She ran her hands over the sleeves and heard it again. The unmissable sound of crinkling. With a frown, and ignoring a strong temptation to close her eyes against whatever she might see, she felt into the pocket.
And laughed.
A hollow cackle into the small room.
The dry cleaning receipt, that was all.
She clutched the shirt in her hand and kept moving, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she stared at his clothes, all hanging like dutiful servants, awaiting their master’s return.
His collection of watches—Blancpain, Chopard, Patek Philippe.
He’d collected them obsessively for years. He’d never said it, but Mariella had known what it meant to him, to look down and see such an obvious statement of success attached to him.
Harrison wasn’t like her. He hadn’t been born to wealth. He had worked his ass off to achieve what he had. He was cautious with his affection; though he had the air of a charming sophisticate, it was a veneer, really. He knew how to please people, but if you watched him carefully, you could see that he kept everyone at arm’s length.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by the tap-tap of Vanessa’s feet as she crossed the room. “Coffee, Mrs. Santiago-Marshall!” The words came to Mariella as they had in a dream, as if from a mile away.
She shook herself, replaced the shirt, and emerged from the wardrobe with the kind of expression on her face that made it impossible for anyone to ask if she was okay, even when she suspected she might not be.
She took the coffee without meeting Vanessa’s gaze. She barely registered the other woman’s presence.
Harrison trusted few people in life. Her. Joe. Their children and Gabe. And now the Fixer. Uncertainty paved a path to realization.
Harrison trusted the Fixer more than he did his own wife. Which could only mean that he knew the Fixer well. Very well.
* * *
Every network was running the same two images: a photo of Harrison standing at the top of a flight of stairs, his arms crossed over his chest, his smile radiating confidence. They’d pulled it from the Marshall International website.
The Fixer had never liked the photo.
It showed Harrison as a magnate, but he was so much more than that. He was a multifaceted man, and the Fixer understood all of those facets. It was the Fixer’s business to do so.
The second image flashed on the screen—a still from the fistfight Luc and Rafe had indulged in outside the hospital.
Jockeying for Position? The headline shouted from the top of the screen in dramatic yellow writing.
Of all the foolhardy, juvenile, disrespectful acts, this had to take the cake. Didn’t they realize how important it was to maintain an image of family unity?
Harrison was lying comatose in a hospital, his life in limbo, and his sons were acting like spoiled brats.
Flicking the channel once more, the Fixer made a sound of disapproval. The writing on the crawl at the bottom of the screen had the Fixer dropping the remote and leaning forward, breath rushing out in one swift exhalation.
Marshall Dead?
The image of Harrison was back, but they’d cropped it so you saw only his face now. The Fixer scrambled for the remote, lifting it off the floor and hitting the mute button so the volume came back on.
“A day after an unexplained car wreck, speculation is mounting about the health of billionaire restaurateur Harrison Marshall, with several unconfirmed sources reporting that far from recuperating in intensive care, the magnate didn’t survive the initial impact of the crash.” The station cut to a sweeping overhead shot of the crash scene, and the Fixer leaned forward, eyes drawn to the crumpled wreckage of Harrison’s car.
How the hell he had survived was a mystery, given the damage to his vehicle. It was shrapnel against the cliff. Shards of metal and glass spread like confetti in its wake.
“The news has caused concern in the finance sector, as the world braces for the loss of this titan of industry. One thing we do know for certain is that Harrison Marshall’s shoes are impossible to fill—for anyone.”
The Fixer’s anger was a palpating rage. The inference that his death only had implications for the financial sector! What a stupid story to run. The Fixer switched the television off and stood restlessly.
The Fixer’s phone was across the room. It took