The Marriage Agenda

by Sarah Ballance

  She was done. She had to be.

  Fortunately, she had something else on which to focus. Pactron.

  Eleanor Byrd was indeed the one behind Emerson Environmental’s thumbs-up on the Pactron project. Clearly they’d found a way to separate business and pleasure, but that didn’t explain the handwritten note from HL, whom she remained convinced was Pactron CEO Harold Levenworth. The files had almost certainly come from Rex, which meant the note thanking Rex for “pushing” the deal through probably belonged to him, as well.

  Rex, Emerson Environmental, and Eleanor Byrd. The most bizarre of triangles, yet inexplicably connected. How…and just as importantly, why? And was there anyone else? She needed another look at those files. Knox was off at a two-day conference—convenient, because she had absolutely nothing to say to him—but he’d given her carte blanche over his files, so she grabbed her laptop and took it into his study.

  His chair—the buttery soft one with which she’d fallen in love—smelled of leather. The scent, too, took her straight back to the limo and that night that had followed…how everything had been beyond perfect until he’d thrown that not even you at her. She had to give him credit—he was all about not misleading her—but how could he touch her the way he had and still utter those words? He could have at least waited until they were dressed. Hell, a distant text message would have been perfect. That way she could have fallen apart in private rather than given herself a headache trying not to fall apart in his bed.

  But headache or not, she hadn’t fallen apart. Not then and not since. She couldn’t help how she felt about him, but until he got down on his knees and declared his undying love—and fat chance there—she was done with hoping anything would change. They had an agreement, and they’d both be a lot happier if she gave up the blind hope that it could ever be anything more.

  She had her own career on which to focus, and she had a very strong feeling she’d find the key to it in those files.

  She went first for the Pactron file, seeking any mention of Emerson. There were copies of the environmental study findings but nothing else that appeared to carry significance. Two other companies had provided environmental studies—Greenleaf and Impact—and both reports came back that the factory would have minimal detrimental effect on the site. Chloe was no expert, but the results didn’t make sense. In fact, at one time a developer had tried to put a subdivision of single-family homes on the land, but the ground had been too wet.

  Too wet for houses but not too wet for a power plant?

  She leafed through the rest of the files, but none were dedicated to Eleanor, Emerson, Greenleaf, or Impact Environmental. Or, for that matter, Harold Levenworth. In anyone else’s files, that wouldn’t be so unusual, but if these were Rex’s files…

  The labels were handwritten. Chloe grabbed a stack and began flipping through them on a hunt for jotted notes. She found Rex’s signature and noted a similarity between the script and the printed version, but it wasn’t enough.

  Then she hit the jackpot. One of Rex’s speeches, typed, but with notes in the margin. Who else but he would have written on one of his own speeches?

  The files were Rex’s. They had to be. But why would he give anyone this information? Knox was probably the last person she should ask, but he was also her only option. Fortunately, she didn’t have to talk to him to find out what she needed to know. She weighed her alternatives for a moment, then picked up her cell and typed a short message in the text box. Where did you get the files you left for me in your office?

  She didn’t expect a rapid reply, considering Knox was off somewhere being fabulous, but she got one. Quickly. My mom. She thought I might learn something useful.

  “You think?” she murmured. Are they Rex’s files?

  I assume so. She said he kept them in the basement, so she figured he wouldn’t miss them.

  Chloe sat back in Knox’s chair. She had Rex’s personal files, and they weren’t even that old—in fact, Pactron could logically be quantified as a current event. Why had he moved something so recent?

  Her phone dinged. Is something wrong ?

  Wrong? Boy, was that ever open to interpretation. Nope. Just wanted to make sure I had my bearings. Thanks.

  I’m tied up here through the weekend. I’m leaving Monday morning. Will I see you then for lunch?

  Did it matter? She sighed.

  She tapped her reply. Not sure.

  It was the easiest way to deal with Knox.

  Rex presented another issue altogether.

  Knowing for certain the files were his—and even better, that they had been relegated to the basement—gave her new purpose. It was generally a no-brainer that anything put in writing might be found, but private files—not from the office but from home—were another story. Rex would have had reasonable expectation these were for his eyes only…unless, of course, the feds raided his property, but that wasn’t a typical concern for most folks. Granted, Rex wasn’t most folks, but he had an ego you couldn’t fit a house around. If he was doing anything wrong, he probably didn’t think he’d be caught.

  And he sure as hell hadn’t counted on her.

  Chloe spent the next several hours going through every folder, page by page. Only a few facts stood out—most predominantly, the thank-you note signed HL.

  And then there was the affair with Eleanor Byrd. It didn’t have to mean more than sex, but the fact she was such a big player in Pactron’s site approval gave Chloe pause. Either way, Rex had really stepped in it this time—there was nothing for connecting old dots like a very public scandal. He’d been sloppy, and if Chloe was on to anything, it was just a matter of time before someone else found it. Whatever it was.

  Eleanor’s firm wasn’t the only one that gave approval to Pactron—two others had, as well. Acting on a hunch, Chloe pulled the reports from the other two companies and looked for the sign offs. Ronald Harris and Charles Martin. She didn’t turn up anything unusual for either name but made notes of them anyway.

  She was just about to put the Pactron file back in Knox’s desk when she saw a piece of paper lying loose in the bottom of the drawer. It was handwritten and contained a series of numbers and letters.

  Initials.

  Included among them, EB, RH, and CM : Eleanor Byrd, Ronald Harris, and Charles Martin. Anything else would be far too much of a coincidence. Next to each one was a set of numbers. One—100k —suggested a hell of a lot of money. The next was a nine-digit number, and it was followed by another series of numbers. The nine-digit number was a routing number—it had to be. She typed it into her browser and pulled up the name of a bank. Interesting.

  But now what? She couldn’t exactly go trolling through his bank account records…or could she? Almost everything seemed to be online these days, but Chloe’s parents had been holdouts to that particular swath of technology, claiming they didn’t trust computers with their banking information. Rex was from the same generation…perhaps he felt the same way? She hadn’t seen anything dedicated to a bank among his papers, but it was just as Knox had said—finding something was a lot easier when you knew what you were looking for.

  And soon she found it. Print bank statements. The bank account wasn’t in Rex’s name but in that of a charity. And right around the time the Pactron studies were returned, there were money transfers from the charity’s accounts to account numbers matching those labeled EB, RH, and CM…to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars each.

  And a thank-you note from HL.

  Had Rex paid for favorable studies? And if so, why? He hadn’t supported Pactron…at least not publicly. Very few people who weren’t behind the proposal had—it certainly wasn’t the popular thing to do, and Rex Hamilton had a real thing for being popular. He was also sloppy, unless he was keeping proof for a reason. The basement didn’t seem the most secure place for that, but there again, who would look for secrets in a bunch of old boxes in a basement? He had no way of knowing those files would ever see the light of day, much less the
fingertips of a reporter for the Washington Tribune.

  Hidden money transfers to key environmental analysts. A controversial project with inexplicable approval. And a thank-you note from the man at the helm.

  Chloe had a strong idea of what was going on, but she wasn’t in a position to verify it.

  But she knew someone who was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After the initial flush of adrenaline wore off, Chloe felt like a train wreck. It had been one thing to go after a big story but was another to find it. Because it was no longer just a nameless, faceless story but one with real people attached. She didn’t care so much for Rex’s feelings, but she genuinely liked Katherine. And Knox…how could she do this to Knox? He’d married her to launch his career. He wanted to restore honor to the family name. If this story was what she thought it was, what would that do to him? Voters might look past his father’s extramarital affairs, but who would look the other way on corruption? The Hamilton name would be synonymous with filthy politics. Some people would see past that—they’d know Knox was not his father—but that shadow was already deep and dark enough as it was. And the bigger the scandal, the longer the public tended to remember it.

  When her phone rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Hand shaking, she checked the call. Not her contact but her editor. Beth hardly ever called her…she had a thing about putting everything in writing so she’d have a record of it. This didn’t bode well. Chloe answered the phone.

  “I’ve got bad news.”

  “No hello?” Chloe asked.

  “Not this time. There’s a meeting Monday. They’re making cuts. I’m going to pull for you, kid, but I can’t make promises.”

  “I’m going to lose my job?” Suddenly the home-and-garden gig looked good. Better than unemployment.

  “Like I said, I’m pulling for you. But they already cut loose a couple of power players. Granted, they cost more than you do to keep on staff, but they were still big cuts. Threw us all for a loop.”

  Chloe glanced at her laptop. “What if I told you I had a big story?”

  “You can say it all you want, but I need to see it by Monday noon if you want it to count.”

  “That bad?”

  “Plan on it. Then maybe we’ll all be pleasantly surprised.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Chloe ended the call.

  Time was short. Could the stakes get any higher? It was down to her or Knox, and he’d made one thing clear.

  It was every man for himself.

  …

  By Sunday night, Chloe had gone from a wreck to a disaster. She hadn’t talked to Knox. She hadn’t left the house. And every new email, phone call, or text message notification sent her heart clamoring into her throat. She had about fifteen hours to get a story in—a story she had no idea if she could actually write. She contacted the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, which had fought vehemently against the power plant. The person with whom she spoke was baffled as to how the project had been approved and offered plenty of reasons it shouldn’t have been, not the least of which was the pollution to the extensive estuary system. But that wasn’t enough. She still needed to hear back from her contact, who was a long-time detective with the local PD. She’d given him the leads. She needed only for him to tie it all together, independent of what she’d found in Rex’s files—something he assured would be no problem. She trusted her contact—he’d come through for her time and time again—but the clock was ticking.

  Then, with the delivery of one email to her inbox, it stopped.

  She opened the message with her heart in her throat. Not because she wondered what was there, but because she knew. Scanning the email verified it.

  She’d gotten her big story…but at Knox’s expense.

  Rex was a crook.

  He’d made a number of payments to the environmental analysts—more than what she’d found. According to new studies that had yet to go public, the completed plant would have dumped pollutants in sensitive areas at a damaging rate. For one analyst to be off was one thing. For the three initial independent analyses to be in such agreement—yet to all be so wrong—was another entirely.

  Rex had paid them off for approval. She didn’t know why, and she certainly didn’t have the power of judge and jury, but she didn’t need it. Everything except the note of thanks from HL had been independently verified. She’d have to leave that out, but she didn’t need it.

  She had her story.

  And when that news broke, it didn’t matter how well Knox was doing in the polls. His campaign would be thrown into a tailspin, and any hopes he had of restoring honor to the family name would be dashed. Not even Rex Hamilton—third-generation American royalty—would be able to put a good spin on this. He had somehow kept it under wraps this long, but his luck had come to an end.

  She dropped her head into her hands. She could not in good conscience keep Rex’s misdeeds from going public, but if she exposed him, she would destroy Knox—the man she loved.

  The same man who’d made it clear he’d never love her back.

  Chloe had promised her editor a story, and her job depended on its delivery.

  Knox hadn’t given Chloe a choice. She didn’t want to hurt him, but he’d made it clear this wasn’t about feelings. He was the one who’d said she’d find a story. He couldn’t have known she’d find it in his backyard, but protecting his feelings wouldn’t do anything for her bank account when they put this business deal of a marriage behind them.

  Her heart breaking, she pushed up her sleeves and began to type.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Knox spent the whole weekend in hell. He’d hurt Chloe, and his words haunted him. He hadn’t meant to say those things to her, but dammit, it was what they’d agreed. Still, having her notarized signature on the prenup attesting to his righteousness did little to appease his guilty conscience.

  And now he couldn’t find her. He’d sent her a text that morning when he’d returned from a breakfast meeting asking if she’d be around. She’d responded that she had an important noon deadline, which he took to mean he’d find her at their home. She did all of her other writing at home, so why would this have been different? It shouldn’t be.

  He rechecked the house, then landed in her office. Her laptop sat right in the middle of her desk. She must have met her deadline or she wouldn’t have left that behind. But why had she left it behind at all? The new car Knox had given her was there, but her old car wasn’t in the garage, and he’d run through the house twice. She wasn’t home.

  So why was her computer?

  Feeling more than a little like an ass, he opened the laptop. After a moment, the password screen greeted him.

  Great. What had she said her password was? Her birthday. As if she thought he’d never remember.

  “Shows what you know,” he murmured. He typed the date and was in. “Got it in one.”

  The screen revealed a file. At the top, where the title should have been, was a simple statement.

  Knox, I got my story. It’s only fair you see it first. Everything here has been independently verified…it’s all true.

  Even before he read another word, a cold, hard weight sat on his chest. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

  Rex. Money transfers. Pactron. Eleanor Byrd.

  Fuck. He read the story a second, then a third time. She’d laid everything out, and the truth culminated with the answer everyone wanted to know. Rex hadn’t stepped down because he cared about his family. He’d stepped down because he’d gotten caught with the wrong woman. The truth had been too close. He probably hoped playing the good guy would keep the heat down, but Rex hadn’t counted on his new daughter-in-law.

  Neither had Knox. As he read through the article again, he realized why she’d been asking about the files. She’d probably found her story right there in his office. Use whatever you need. Nothing is classified in here…yet. And he’d smiled.

  Chloe had betrayed him.

  He clutched the edg
e of the desk to keep his hands from shaking, but the unsteadiness only spread to his arms. She’d lied, and he had believed her. He’d believed her when she’d said she cared not about the name but about him.

  He had been the biggest kind of fool.

  From the moment she stepped foot in his rented room that night at Off the Record, it had been the wrong kind of personal. The Pactron bid had begun long before he and Chloe met, but back then, no one had thought the site would pass the environmental assessments, so it was no wonder she hadn’t mentioned it. Then the approvals had come through, and weeks later, he’d walked back into her life and truly given her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  Access. He nearly laughed. He’d given her access all right. He supposed it would have been a little much to have asked her to not destroy his life with it, but it was his fault for not seeing it coming. After a lifetime of learning not to trust, he’d believed one time.

  In one woman.

  Fuck.

  He pushed back from her desk so forcefully the chair tipped and fell. He managed to get to his feet before it hit the ground, taking him with it. As he stood there, trying to catch his breath, he realized the grinding in his chest was something more than anger. He’d been angry before, but this god-awful pain went beyond anything he’d ever known.

  He was hurt.

  He’d trusted her. He’d trusted a fucking reporter, and she’d used that trust to destroy him, but he’d have to deal with that later. He pressed his fingers to his temples, but there was no slowing down the headache that had already begun to settle in. Ultimately, he had no one to blame but himself. Believing in her had been his mistake—one he’d never make again. In the meantime, he needed to make strides toward damage control. His father was a crook, and when this story broke, all hell would rain. Toby would have a coronary trying to somehow spin it so Knox looked like the good guy, and Knox’s opponent would have a field day.