Chapter 2 - SLOAN MERCER WAS NOT JUST A MISTRESSBy midnight, our apartment had become evidence.
Not officially sealed.
Not dramatically surrounded by federal agents.
But preserved.
Our attorney instructed us not to touch Preston’s home office.
Whitmore’s general counsel engaged outside investigators.
Marcus Vale’s attorney coordinated separately.
And I went to the hospital.
Not because anything catastrophic happened.
Because I started having contractions.
Irregular.
Painful enough to frighten me.
At thirty-one weeks, fear was sufficient.
Preston tried to come.
I said no.
My sister Hannah met me instead.
The baby was fine.
No cervical change.
Contractions settled with hydration and rest.
My obstetrician looked at me.
“Whatever crisis is happening, someone else can carry it tonight.”
I almost laughed.
“They’re doing a poor job.”
She did not laugh.
“Emily.”
“I know.”
For four hours, I did nothing financial.
That became important later.
A crime investigation could wait.
My daughter could not.
The next morning, outside counsel came to my apartment with a digital-forensics specialist.
Preston slept at a hotel.
My choice.
The study contained:
His corporate laptop.
Personal laptop.
Home printer.
Network storage.
Old tablets.
One smart-home administrative console.
Investigators imaged everything with proper consent and corporate authorization where applicable.
Then they found the first device I did not recognize.
A tiny network adapter attached behind the printer.
Not spy-movie technology.
A consumer-grade remote-access bridge.
Cheap.
Available online.
Configured to allow remote network connections.
Installed approximately fourteen months earlier.
Same period Sloan entered Preston’s life.
I stared.
“Could she use this to access his work laptop?”
The specialist shook his head.
“Not automatically. Corporate endpoint security would block direct intrusion. But it could allow access to local devices, stored print jobs, synced credentials, and possibly browser sessions depending on configuration.”
Enough.
Preston had sometimes logged into corporate treasury from home.
Enough again.
Then they checked building records.
Sloan had entered our apartment twenty-seven times while I was away over ten months.
I already knew about twelve.
The affair.
The rest?
Preston was traveling too.
I looked at him later.
“You weren’t here.”
He stared at the dates.
“No.”
“So why was she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You gave her a key.”
“For the affair.”
“Remarkably bad answer.”
“I know.”
Sloan had been using our home even when Preston was gone.
May you like
Not romance.
Access.
