Chapter 15 - Anton’s Bed
Anton opened his eyes when he heard Julian Cross’s name, then shut them again like a man who understood silence was safer than truth.
Grant, Dawson, Officer Ruiz, and I were allowed only a brief supervised conversation because Anton’s lawyer had finally appeared and made everything harder. The driver lay in a private hospital room with bruising across his face and one arm in a sling. Officially, he had been assaulted outside a parking garage after “an unrelated disagreement.”
Nothing about him said unrelated.
Ruiz stayed closest to the bed. “Mr. Belik, you were seen on Mercer property before a staff-room break-in and outside the estate last night. We also have evidence linking you to communication with Julian Cross. Do you want to explain any of that?”
Anton stared at the ceiling.
His lawyer answered instead. “My client is in no condition for interrogation.”
“You brought your client to a private room under an assumed check-in,” Dawson said coolly. “Let’s not pretend transparency has guided anyone here.”
Anton’s eyes flicked toward me.
I saw recognition. Fear. Shame, maybe. Or maybe I wanted shame to exist.
“Did Vivienne tell you to search my room?” I asked.
His throat worked, but no words came.
Then Ruiz said, “Did someone hurt you because of what you know?”
That got a reaction. His fingers tightened under the blanket. Tiny. Telling.
The midpoint explosion was complete now. Everything before this had been fragments: assault, footage, stolen evidence, missing driver, trust document. Here they started aligning around a more dangerous reality—Vivienne was not acting alone, and the people around her were becoming liabilities to someone.
Grant stepped forward. “Was it Julian?”
Anton’s gaze shifted to him, then away.
Ruiz leaned in. “Nod yes or no if you can.”
The lawyer objected immediately, but too late.
Anton gave one tiny, broken nod.
The room went silent.
Julian Cross wasn’t just protecting his sister after the fact.
He was involved enough for Anton to implicate him even through fear.
Then Anton whispered something so faint I almost thought I imagined it.
“The card… wasn’t all…”
Ruiz bent lower. “What card?”
His eyes moved to me again. “Phone.”
My pulse slammed hard enough to make the room blur for a second.
My phone?
I stepped closer. “What about my phone?”
But his lawyer interrupted, ordered the conversation over, and the nurse entered to push us back. Anton shut down completely after that. Not another word. Not another nod.
As we left the hospital corridor, I turned to Grant. “He said ‘The card wasn’t all.’ And ‘phone.’”
Dawson answered before Grant could. “He may mean your missing recordings had duplicates.”
I shook my head slowly. “No. I never backed them up.”
Ruiz said, “Could someone have accessed your phone itself?”
I thought of the texts. The unknown numbers. The way Vivienne’s side kept pushing the idea that I had motives tied to Grant. Then I remembered something small and ugly: two weeks earlier, at a dinner party, I’d left my phone charging on the kitchen counter for twenty minutes. Vivienne had passed through then.
“Maybe,” I said.
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Accessed how?”
I swallowed. “Enough to look. Enough to copy something. Enough to plant something.”
Dawson stopped walking. “That changes things.”
“How?” I asked.
“Because if they were preparing a narrative about your motives, they may not only have stolen from you.” He looked at Grant. “They may have fabricated evidence inside her device.”
The consequence punched through me.
It was one thing to be accused.
It was another to realize they might produce fake texts, altered notes, or staged material from my own phone to make the accusation look real.
Ruiz nodded grimly. “We need digital examination immediately.”
Grant turned to me. “Where is your phone now?”
“In my bag.”
“Then from this point on, you do not unlock it unless Ruiz or the examiner is present.”
I nodded.
We had a new direction now. We weren’t just proving what Vivienne did. We were defending the integrity of my digital life before her side weaponized it.
Back at the house, Eli met us at the door with fresh alarm in his face.
“Sir,” he said, “press received an anonymous package.”
Grant’s eyes hardened. “What package?”
Eli held up a tabloid proof sent by a contact warning them first.
On the cover mock-up was a blurred photo of me holding Noah close in the garden and one headline in ugly black type:
May you like
Mercer Caregiver Too Close to Heir?
📖 Anton linked Julian to the cover-up—but the fake story about me and Noah had already reached the press, which meant the next battle would be public, vicious, and personal. 👇
