The Glass Mansion Secrets

I rushed out through the automatic glass doors of the emergency entrance into the damp night air. The hospital driveway was empty except for a lone taxi idling near the curb.

I pulled out my smartphone and dialed Vanessa’s number. The call went straight to voicemail.

“Hi, you’ve reached Vanessa Vance. Please leave a message...”

I disconnected without leaving a word. Next, I called Marcus Vance, my head of personal security and a former homicide detective who had served the Whitmore family for over a decade.

He answered on the third ring, his voice crisp despite the hour. "Mr. Whitmore? Is everything alright? I got a notification that the estate alarm was triggered at midnight."

"Marcus, I need you at the Beverly Hills house immediately," I said, keeping my voice low as I walked toward my SUV. "And I need a two-man executive protection detail sent to Cedars-Sinai Room 412 right now. No one enters Maria Santos's room without my personal authorization."

"Understood, sir. Are you in danger?"

"I don't know yet," I replied truthfully. "Meet me at the house in twenty minutes."

The drive back up into the hills was a blur of streetlights and twisting asphalt. My mind churned with a mixture of grief, rage, and betrayal. If Maria was telling the truth—and every instinct honed over fifteen years in high-stakes corporate negotiation told me she was—my brother had faked his tragic death, allowed my mother to die of a broken heart, and left me to manage the wreckage, all while siphon millions out of our corporate holdings with the help of the woman currently wearing my engagement ring.

When I pulled up to the iron gates of my estate, they swung open automatically. Marcus’s dark sedan was already parked in the cobblestone motor court.

Marcus stood by the front entrance, wearing his dark suit, a flashlight strapped to his tactical belt. "Mr. Whitmore. The glass in the east gallery has been contained, but Miss Vance is not here. Her sports car is gone from the garage."

"Did you check her quarters?"

"I walked through the master suite, sir. Her passport is missing from the safe, along with her jewelry collection."

A cold laugh escaped my throat. She had fled the moment I stepped into Maria’s hospital room. She knew the game was over the second Maria opened her mouth.

"Come inside, Marcus," I said, opening the heavy oak front doors. "We have a lot to talk about."

We walked into my study, a large room lined with leather-bound books, oil paintings of my grandfather, and a massive mahogany desk. I poured two fingers of scotch, drank it in one burn, and then sat down across from my security chief.

"Tell me everything you know about how Vanessa Vance entered my life," I demanded.

Marcus pulled out a small leather notepad. "Eighteen months ago. She surfaced as an art consultant representing European buyers. When you started seeing her, I ran our standard background check. She had a clean credit history, a registered gallery in West Hollywood, degrees from Columbia University, and no criminal record."

"Dig deeper," I said flatly. "Look for the name Victoria. Look for offshore shell accounts linked to Andrew’s old personal accounts in the Caymans."

Marcus’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of my late brother. "Andrew, sir? I thought his accounts were dissolved after the probate court declared him legally deceased four years ago."

"So did I," I said, leaning forward. "Maria Santos claims Andrew is alive. She claims he faked the boat crash in Santa Barbara, and that Vanessa was working with him back then under a different identity."

Marcus didn't laugh or express disbelief. That was why I paid him half a million dollars a year. He simply absorbed the information, his mind immediately calculating the security implications.

"If Andrew Whitmore is alive," Marcus said slowly, "then his probate settlement was fraudulent. That means the thirty million dollars distributed from his portion of the family trust to various corporate entities was illegal. And if Miss Vance was involved, she wasn't just marrying you for your current wealth—she was monitoring the family assets from the inside."

"Where would she go tonight?" I asked.

"If she’s smart, she won't try to catch a commercial flight out of LAX—customs databases are too easy to flag once a police report is filed. She will likely use a private airfield or head toward a secure safehouse." Marcus paused, looking at me intently. "Sir, if Maria Santos is right, there’s another variable we have to consider."

"Her son," I said softly. "Noah."

"If the boy is Andrew’s biological son, he is a legitimate heir to the Whitmore estate," Marcus said. "If Vanessa and Andrew are trying to clean up loose ends before disappearing completely, that child is in critical danger."