C7 The Man Who Never Existed
Victor Cross had spent twenty-three years building a reputation that could survive almost anything.
A failed investment. A lawsuit. A scandal involving a former business partner.
He had survived them all.
But there was one name he had spent four years making sure nobody mentioned.
Elias.
And now, thanks to Daniel Bennett’s daughter, that name was dangerously close to resurfacing.
Victor stood at his office window, watching the evening traffic crawl through Manhattan. His phone lay on the desk behind him. He had already made three calls, and none had brought him the answer he wanted.
The original trust amendment was still missing.
Damian had visited Margaret Whitmore.
And the Bennett girl was proving considerably more troublesome than her father had ever been.
His office door opened without a knock.
“You’re getting careless, Uncle.”
Victor turned.
Adrian Cross walked inside, his jacket slung over one shoulder.
“Have you forgotten how to knock?”
“Have you forgotten how to answer your phone?”
“I’m busy.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Adrian dropped into the leather chair opposite the desk.
Victor watched him carefully.
There had always been something irritating about Adrian’s confidence. He possessed none of Damian’s discipline, yet somehow managed to notice things everyone else overlooked.
“What do you want?” Victor asked.
Adrian glanced at the photograph lying beside Victor’s laptop.
The torn photograph.
Victor moved to cover it, but Adrian had already seen enough.
“Still keeping souvenirs?”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Relax. I didn’t come to argue.”
“Then why are you here?”
Adrian leaned forward.
“Damian is asking questions about Hawthorne Street.”
Victor said nothing.
“And he’s hired an outside accounting firm.”
That got his attention.
“When?”
“This afternoon. Apparently, he doesn’t trust the company’s internal records anymore.”
Victor cursed beneath his breath.
Adrian studied him.
“You look worried.”
“Your brother is making reckless decisions.”
“Funny. He says the same thing about you.”
Victor walked toward his desk.
“Damian doesn’t understand the consequences of what he’s doing.”
“Then explain them to him.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Everything is complicated when you don’t want to tell the truth.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed.
“Be careful, Adrian.”
Adrian stood.
“That’s the second warning I’ve received today.”
“From whom?”
“Does it matter?”
Victor stepped closer.
“It does if you’re involving yourself in things that don’t concern you.”
Adrian smiled, but there was no humor in it.
“That’s the problem with this family. Everyone keeps deciding what concerns everyone else.”
He turned toward the door.
Then stopped.
“One more thing.”
Victor waited.
“Whatever happened four years ago, don’t make the mistake of thinking Damian will protect you because you’re family.”
The door closed behind him.
Victor remained standing.
Then he picked up his phone.
This time, the person answered immediately.
“We need to move the documents,” Victor said.
A woman’s voice replied.
“Which documents?”
“All of them.”
“Victor, that wasn’t our agreement.”
“Our agreement changed when Daniel Bennett’s daughter walked into Cross Industries.”
There was silence.
Then the woman spoke.
“You’re losing control.”
Victor gripped the phone.
“No. I’m preventing a disaster.”
“Then make sure you know which disaster you’re preventing.”
The call ended.
Victor stared at the screen.
For the first time in years, he wondered whether the people who had helped him bury the truth were preparing to bury him with it.
⸻
Amara Bennett had been staring at the same spreadsheet for forty minutes.
The numbers weren’t making sense.
Or perhaps they were making too much sense.
She sat in a small conference room at Cross Industries, surrounded by printed documents from Margaret Whitmore’s collection.
Naomi had arranged for copies of the records to be preserved securely. The originals remained with Margaret under an agreed evidence-handling plan.
Amara had spent most of the morning comparing the payments mentioned in Daniel Bennett’s letter with the acquisition records.
One payment stood out.
$2.4 million.
Transferred through Northbridge Advisory Group.
Then divided into four smaller payments.
Three had gone to companies she couldn’t immediately identify.
The fourth had gone to an account associated with a name she had never encountered before.
Elias Mercer.
Amara read it again.
Elias Mercer.
She searched the internal directory.
Nothing.
The historical supplier database.
Nothing.
The archived acquisition correspondence.
Still nothing.
It was as though the man had never existed.
“You’re going to wear a hole through that screen.”
Amara looked up.
Damian stood in the doorway holding two coffees.
She checked the clock.
“Don’t you have an empire to run?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because my legal researcher has been in this room for three hours and hasn’t answered any of my messages.”
She reached for her phone.
Four missed messages.
All from Damian.
“Oh.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“An apology would be appropriate.”
“Don’t get ambitious.”
He placed a coffee beside her.
Amara glanced at it.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you buy it?”
“You looked tired.”
She stared at him.
It was such an ordinary answer that she didn’t know what to do with it.
“Thank you,” she said eventually.
“You’re welcome.”
He pulled out the chair opposite her.
“What have you found?”
Amara turned her laptop toward him.
“A name.”
Damian leaned closer.
“Elias Mercer.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
He looked at her.
“Why would I lie about that?”
“Because your family seems to have made dishonesty a competitive sport.”
Damian gave her a tired look.
“Can we go one morning without insulting my relatives?”
“That depends. Can your relatives go one morning without behaving suspiciously?”
He sighed.
Amara almost smiled.
Then she pointed to the payment record.
“Look at the dates.”
Damian studied the screen.
“Three days before the acquisition.”
“Exactly. Northbridge received the consulting payment. Within forty-eight hours, most of the money had been redistributed.”
“To whom?”
“Three companies and one individual account. Elias Mercer.”
“Have you verified the account holder?”
“Not yet. I only have a partial account reference from the records Margaret kept.”
Damian frowned.
“Then we shouldn’t assume the name belongs to the actual recipient.”
“I know. But there’s something else.”
She opened another document.
“This is a list of authorized consultants from the year before the acquisition. Someone added a handwritten note beside a company called Mercer Strategic Holdings.”
Damian leaned forward.
The note contained only four words.
Approved by V. Cross.
He stared at it.
“Victor.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Damian sat back.
“Send the records to Naomi. We’ll have the accountants trace the transactions.”
“Already done.”
He looked at her.
“Of course you have.”
Amara took a sip of coffee.
It was exactly how she liked it.
She paused.
Then looked at him suspiciously.
“How did you know my order?”
Damian glanced at the cup.
“I asked.”
“Who?”
“Your assistant.”
“I don’t have an assistant.”
“Then the receptionist.”
Amara narrowed her eyes.
“You’re very strange.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She looked back at her laptop before he could see the smile she was trying to hide.
⸻
By lunchtime, Amara had discovered three things.
Elias Mercer had once been listed as a financial consultant.
Mercer Strategic Holdings had been dissolved shortly after Bennett Developments collapsed.
And someone had removed almost every reference to the company from Cross Industries’ current records.
That last detail bothered her most.
People didn’t usually erase a company from historical databases unless they had something to hide.
She was preparing to leave for lunch when her phone rang.
Nia.
Amara answered.
“Before you start, yes, I’m alive.”
“That’s nice. I was beginning to think your billionaire boss had locked you in a filing cabinet.”
“Not yet.”
“Give him time.”
Amara laughed.
Nia Brooks had been her best friend since university, and there were very few people capable of making her laugh when she was worried.
“So,” Nia continued, “how’s the investigation?”
“Complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“Missing documents. Suspicious payments. Family secrets. Someone sending me threatening messages.”
Nia went quiet.
“Wait. What?”
Amara closed her eyes.
She hadn’t meant to say that last part so casually.
“Nia—”
“Someone threatened you?”
“It’s being handled.”
“By who?”
“Company security and legal.”
“Amara.”
“What?”
“Do you hear yourself? You’re investigating a billionaire family, someone is threatening you, and you’re acting like this is a normal Tuesday.”
“It is Tuesday.”
“That is not the point!”
Amara leaned against the conference table.
“I know.”
Nia sighed.
“Have you told your mum?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And the police?”
“Naomi is helping me preserve the messages and make a report.”
“Please actually follow through.”
“I will.”
A pause.
Then Nia asked, “And Damian?”
“What about him?”
“Is he helping?”
Amara looked toward the glass walls of the conference room.
Through them, she could see Damian speaking to Naomi near the elevators.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m shocked because two days ago you were ready to destroy the man.”
“I still don’t trust him completely.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Amara frowned.
“Nia.”
“I’m just saying, be careful.”
“I am being careful.”
“With the investigation, yes. I’m talking about your heart.”
Amara nearly dropped her phone.
“My what?”
Nia laughed.
“Oh, please. I know that voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one you use when you’re pretending not to care about someone.”
Amara stared at the ceiling.
“I am hanging up.”
“Tell your billionaire I said hello.”
“He is not my billionaire.”
“Yet.”
“Nia!”
But her friend had already ended the call.
Amara stood there for several seconds.
Then she muttered, “Ridiculous.”
Unfortunately, her face felt warm.
⸻
At two thirty, Damian received a message from his stepmother.
Vivienne: Dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. Family only.
He stared at it.
Family dinners at the Cross residence were rarely pleasant.
They usually involved Victor criticizing his decisions, Adrian making inappropriate jokes, and Vivienne pretending she wasn’t enjoying every second of the arguments.
Damian had avoided the last three.
He intended to avoid this one too.
Then another message arrived.
Vivienne: Your father’s memorial foundation is being reviewed. There are matters we need to discuss.
Damian’s expression changed.
His father’s foundation.
He typed a reply.
Damian: I’ll be there.
He put the phone down.
A moment later, Adrian appeared in his doorway.
“You’re coming tonight?”
Damian looked up.
“Apparently.”
“Wonderful. A family reunion.”
“What do you want, Adrian?”
His brother walked inside.
“To warn you.”
Damian leaned back.
“About?”
“Victor.”
“That narrows it down.”
Adrian closed the door.
The smile disappeared from his face.
“He’s nervous.”
“Good.”
“Damian, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Adrian glanced toward the corridor.
“Whatever you’re investigating, it’s bigger than Bennett Developments.”
Damian studied him.
“You’ve said that before.”
“Because you keep refusing to listen.”
“Then stop speaking in half-truths.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“You think I know everything?”
“I think you know more than you’re telling me.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Adrian looked away.
“Maybe I do.”
Damian stood.
“Then tell me.”
Adrian hesitated.
“I found something in Dad’s old files.”
“What?”
“A name.”
Damian waited.
Adrian looked directly at him.
“Elias Mercer.”
The room went silent.
Damian felt his stomach tighten.
“Where did you hear that name?”
Adrian stared.
“You know him?”
“No. But Amara found a payment record connected to him.”
Adrian swore quietly.
“What?” Damian demanded.
His brother rubbed a hand across his face.
“Then she’s closer than I thought.”
“Closer to what?”
Adrian looked toward the door.
Then back at Damian.
“Do you remember the man who used to visit Dad when we were younger? Tall, dark hair, always carrying a brown leather briefcase?”
Damian frowned.
Several faces passed through his memory.
Then one emerged.
A man standing in the library.
His father speaking to him in a low voice.
Victor entering the room.
The conversation stopping immediately.
Damian looked up.
“That was Elias Mercer?”
Adrian nodded.
“I think so.”
“Why didn’t you mention him before?”
“Because until last week, I thought he was dead.”
Damian went still.
“What?”
Adrian swallowed.
“Victor told me Elias died in an accident four years ago.”
Damian stared at his brother.
“And you believed him?”
“I had no reason not to.”
“Do you have one now?”
Adrian reached into his jacket.
He placed a folded piece of paper on the desk.
It was a recent courier receipt.
Damian examined it.
The sender’s name had been printed clearly.
E. MERCER.
The delivery date was six weeks earlier.
The recipient?
VIVIENNE CROSS.
Damian looked up.
Adrian’s expression was grim.
“Apparently, dead men still send packages.”
⸻
The Cross residence looked exactly as Amara imagined a billionaire family’s home would look.
Ridiculously large.
Unnecessarily impressive.
And probably filled with people who believed ordinary rules didn’t apply to them.
She stood beside Damian’s car, staring at the enormous mansion.
“Remind me why I’m here.”
Damian adjusted his cufflinks.
“Because the foundation records may be relevant to the financial investigation.”
“That explains why you’re here. Not why I am.”
“I need someone who knows the Bennett documents.”
“Naomi knows the documents.”
“Naomi has another appointment.”
Amara folded her arms.
“So I’m your replacement lawyer?”
“You’re my researcher.”
“At a family dinner?”
“At a family dinner.”
She stared at him.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve heard.”
He started toward the entrance.
Amara remained where she was.
“Damian.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Your stepmother doesn’t know I’m coming, does she?”
A pause.
Then he turned.
“No.”
Amara closed her eyes.
“Of course not.”
“Would you have come if I’d told you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I made the correct decision.”
She stared at him.
“You are going to be the reason I develop a headache.”
He looked almost pleased.
“Come inside, Miss Bennett.”
Amara followed him up the steps, already regretting every decision that had brought her there.
The front door opened before they reached it.
A uniformed attendant greeted Damian and led them into a marble entrance hall.
A chandelier hung above the staircase.
Paintings lined the walls.
Everything gleamed.
Amara looked around.
“You know, most people just buy a house.”
Damian glanced at her.
“Most people don’t have my stepmother.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
Before she could respond, a woman’s voice rang out.
“Damian, darling!”
Vivienne Cross appeared at the top of the staircase.
She was beautiful in the kind of way that seemed carefully planned.
Her dark hair fell in polished waves around her shoulders, and a cream silk dress moved elegantly as she descended.
Her smile was perfect.
Until she noticed Amara.
Then it changed.
Only slightly.
But Amara saw it.
“Damian,” Vivienne said warmly, “you’ve brought a guest.”
Damian stepped aside.
“Vivienne, this is Amara Bennett. She’s assisting with a historical financial review at Cross Industries.”
Vivienne’s smile froze.
“Bennett?”
Amara held out her hand.
“Good evening, Mrs. Cross.”
Vivienne stared at her for one second too long.
Then she took her hand.
“How lovely.”
Her grip was cool.
“And which Bennett family are you from?”
Amara met her eyes.
“Daniel Bennett was my father.”
The silence was immediate.
Vivienne’s hand loosened.
Behind her, footsteps sounded on the staircase.
Victor Cross appeared.
He stopped when he saw Amara.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Adrian’s voice drifted from the drawing room.
“Well, this should be interesting.”
⸻
Dinner began badly.
It became worse.
And by the second course, Amara understood why Damian avoided family gatherings.
Victor spent most of the meal criticizing the independent financial review.
Vivienne repeatedly attempted to change the subject.
Adrian seemed determined to make everyone uncomfortable.
And Damian barely touched his food.
“So, Amara,” Vivienne said, placing her glass on the table, “how are you finding Cross Industries?”
“Very interesting.”
“I’m sure.”
Vivienne smiled.
“Damian can be rather demanding.”
“He can.”
Adrian choked on his water.
Damian looked at Amara.
She kept her expression innocent.
Vivienne continued.
“And what exactly do you do?”
“I examine historical financial records and help identify discrepancies.”
Victor’s knife stopped moving.
“Fascinating,” Vivienne said.
Amara nodded.
“It has been.”
“Especially the Bennett acquisition, I imagine.”
The table went quiet.
Damian looked up.
“Vivienne.”
“What? I’m merely making conversation.”
Amara met the older woman’s gaze.
“Yes. That acquisition has been particularly interesting.”
Vivienne’s smile tightened.
“How unfortunate that your father’s business ended the way it did.”
Amara felt her chest tighten.
“It was unfortunate.”
“Daniel always seemed so ambitious.”
“He was.”
“Sometimes ambition encourages people to take risks they shouldn’t.”
Damian set down his fork.
“That’s enough.”
Vivienne looked surprised.
“Darling, I wasn’t insulting anyone.”
“Then choose your words more carefully.”
Amara stared at her plate.
She wasn’t accustomed to anyone defending her father in a room full of people who had benefited from his downfall.
Especially Damian.
Vivienne leaned back.
“Of course.”
For several minutes, the conversation shifted to safer subjects.
The foundation.
An upcoming charity gala.
A new property development.
Then Adrian spoke.
“Speaking of old business partners, whatever happened to Elias Mercer?”
The effect was immediate.
Victor went rigid.
Vivienne’s glass struck the table.
Damian looked directly at his brother.
Adrian continued eating as though he’d asked about the weather.
“Who?” Vivienne asked.
“Elias Mercer,” Adrian repeated. “Dad’s old consultant.”
Victor cleared his throat.
“Why bring him up?”
“Curiosity.”
“He’s dead,” Victor said sharply.
Adrian looked up.
“Are you sure?”
The room went silent.
Vivienne’s expression became cold.
“Adrian, this is hardly appropriate dinner conversation.”
“Neither is insulting a dead man’s daughter, but we’ve managed that beautifully.”
Amara nearly smiled.
Damian didn’t.
His eyes were fixed on Vivienne.
“Did Elias Mercer contact you recently?”
Vivienne turned.
“What?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A package was delivered to you under his name.”
Victor stood abruptly.
“This conversation is over.”
Damian didn’t move.
“Sit down, Victor.”
The older man’s face darkened.
“Don’t speak to me like that in my own family home.”
“Then stop interrupting.”
Vivienne pushed back her chair.
“Damian, you’re upsetting everyone.”
“I’m asking a question.”
“At dinner?”
“Would you prefer I ask it in front of the board?”
Her face changed.
Amara watched carefully.
There it was again.
Fear.
The same expression she’d seen on Victor’s face when Damian mentioned the independent accounting firm.
Vivienne slowly sat down.
“I received a package,” she admitted.
Damian leaned forward.
“From Elias Mercer?”
“The sender’s name was unfamiliar to me.”
“What was inside?”
“A book.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
“A book?”
“Yes.”
“Which book?”
Vivienne hesitated.
“I don’t remember.”
Damian’s expression hardened.
“Where is it now?”
“I gave it away.”
“To whom?”
“Damian, this is absurd.”
“To whom, Vivienne?”
She stood.
“I will not be interrogated in my own dining room.”
Then she walked out.
Victor followed immediately.
The door closed behind them.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Adrian looked at Amara.
“Welcome to the family.”
Amara stared at him.
“I think I’d rather be unemployed.”
For the first time all evening, Damian laughed.
⸻
Twenty minutes later, Amara found herself standing in the mansion’s library.
Damian had gone to speak with Vivienne.
Adrian had disappeared.
And Amara had been instructed to wait.
She had absolutely no intention of wandering through the house.
But the library door had been open.
And on the wall beside it hung a photograph that stopped her in her tracks.
Richard Cross.
Daniel Bennett.
Victor Cross.
And a fourth man.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Holding a brown leather briefcase.
Amara stepped closer.
The photograph was dated five years before the Bennett scandal.
Beneath it was a small brass plaque.
CROSS FOUNDATION — FOUNDING ADVISORY COMMITTEE.
She examined the names.
Richard Cross.
Daniel Bennett.
Victor Cross.
Elias Mercer.
Her heart began to race.
Elias hadn’t been merely a consultant.
He had served on the foundation’s founding advisory committee.
A committee responsible for overseeing charitable funds and investment allocations.
Amara pulled out her phone and took a photograph of the plaque.
Then she heard footsteps.
She turned.
Vivienne stood in the doorway.
Her expression was no longer pleasant.
“What are you doing in here?”
Amara lowered her phone.
“Looking at the photographs.”
“This is a private room.”
“The door was open.”
Vivienne stepped inside.
“You seem very interested in things that don’t concern you.”
Amara met her gaze.
“My father’s name is on that wall. I’d say it concerns me.”
Vivienne’s eyes narrowed.
“Your father made mistakes.”
“Then why does everyone become nervous when I ask what they were?”
The older woman stared at her.
For a moment, the elegant mask slipped.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
Amara said nothing.
“You think you can walk into this family, dig through old documents, and expose something that nobody else has managed to uncover.”
“I’m looking for the truth.”
Vivienne laughed quietly.
“The truth.”
She moved closer.
“Your father said the same thing.”
Amara’s stomach tightened.
“You knew him?”
“Of course I knew him.”
“Then you know what happened.”
Vivienne’s expression changed.
“I know he should have left certain matters alone.”
Amara felt a chill.
“What matters?”
Vivienne looked toward the photograph.
Then back at her.
“Ask Damian what his father left out of the will.”
Amara frowned.
“What?”
But Vivienne was already walking away.
At the doorway, she stopped.
“And Miss Bennett?”
Amara looked up.
“Yes?”
“Be careful who you trust in this house.”
Then she disappeared.
⸻
Damian found Amara ten minutes later.
She was still standing beside the photograph.
“Are you all right?”
She turned.
“Your stepmother is terrifying.”
“That’s one word for her.”
“She told me to ask you about your father’s will.”
Damian went still.
“What?”
“She said your father left something out of it.”
His expression changed.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I was present when the will was read.”
“Maybe she meant something else.”
Damian looked toward the photograph.
His gaze settled on Elias Mercer.
Then the plaque.
Amara watched his face.
“You didn’t know he was on the foundation committee?”
“No.”
“Your family has an impressive number of secrets.”
Damian didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped closer to the photograph.
“There’s something wrong.”
Amara frowned.
“What?”
He pointed to the date.
“This photograph was taken the year before my father established the foundation.”
She looked at the plaque again.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe they used an older photograph.”
“Maybe.”
But Damian didn’t sound convinced.
He reached toward the frame.
Amara watched as he examined the edges.
One corner was slightly loose.
He lifted it carefully.
Behind the frame was a narrow envelope.
Amara’s heart began to pound.
“Damian.”
“I see it.”
He removed the envelope.
It was unsealed.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Damian unfolded it.
Amara leaned closer.
At the top were the words:
PRIVATE TRUST AMENDMENT — SUPPLEMENTARY BENEFICIARY DESIGNATION
Below them were several paragraphs of legal language.
Then a name.
Amara read it once.
Then again.
Her breath caught.
“That can’t be right.”
Damian stared at the document.
His expression had gone completely blank.
Because according to the amendment, the Hawthorne Street property had been placed in trust for one person.
Not Victor.
Not Vivienne.
Not Damian.
Amara Bennett.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Damian turned toward her.
“Amara…”
She stepped back.
“No.”
“Listen—”
“No. I don’t understand.”
Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear herself think.
“Why would your father leave me a house?”
Damian looked down at the document.
“I don’t know.”
Amara stared at him.
Then she noticed the date.
The amendment had been signed four years earlier.
Two weeks before Daniel Bennett’s financial scandal became public.
Her hands began to tremble.
“Damian.”
He looked up.
She pointed to the final paragraph.
“Read that.”
He followed her finger.
And the color drained from his face.
The document contained a handwritten instruction beneath Richard Cross’s signature.
The beneficiary must not be informed until Elias Mercer confirms the circumstances surrounding Daniel Bennett’s disappearance from the acquisition proceedings.
Amara felt the room tilt.
Her father hadn’t disappeared.
He had lost his company.
His reputation.
And eventually his life.
But the document suggested that Richard Cross had expected something else to happen.
Something nobody had ever explained.
She looked at Damian.
“What does this mean?”
Before he could answer, a voice came from the doorway.
“It means you’ve found something that doesn’t belong to you.”
They turned.
Victor Cross stood in the entrance.
And beside him was a man Amara had never seen before.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Holding a brown leather briefcase.
The same man from the photograph.
Victor looked at the document in Damian’s hand.
Then at Amara.
His expression was unreadable.
“Miss Bennett,” he said quietly, “I believe it’s time you met Elias Mercer.”
