Switched Bride, True Luna - Chapter 78: Chapter 78

Logan
The message came through a secure channel—no subject line, no salutation, just a file attachment and a timestamp that told me exactly when someone had crossed a line.
I opened the report slowly. My office was still, the only sound the soft hum of the monitors as they flickered to life across the wall.
The report was from Maren, one of the few internal auditors who still remembered the value of discretion.
She hadn’t flagged this to my advisors. She hadn’t copied anyone else. That alone told me everything I needed to know about the contents.
Three procurement orders had been rerouted through one of the auxiliary branches Reid’s team oversaw—requisition numbers out of sequence, timestamps edited post-submission.
The paper trail looked clean unless you knew what to look for.
Maren clearly did, and suspected I would too.
Reid’s signature was there. So was Chloe’s. But it wasn’t just the rerouted files that bothered me. It was the gap.
Each document had exactly a ten-minute delay between creation and approval, logged in a system that usually handled such tasks in under sixty seconds.
That meant someone was altering them—likely inserting authorization and shielding the edits.
Sloppy, if you knew the pattern.
Clever, if you didn’t.
I tapped into the secured terminal, pulling up internal estate security footage from the night of the summit. It took longer than I liked—several feeds were already overwritten or partially corrupted, which wasn’t unusual for older archives.
But Maren had included a few precise timestamps. So, I narrowed the search.
21:14 – Chloe lingers near the drinks blocking the view from the cameras.
21:17 – Reid enters from the side hall, already loosening his collar. They exchange a few words. He picks up a glass and drinks it.
21:19 – They leave the main room together. The hallway camera catches them turning the corner toward the guest suites.
Then a glitch. Sixty-two minutes missing.
When the feed picks up again, it’s 22:21. They emerge from the corridor. Chloe’s dress is slightly rumpled. Reid looks… dazed. Off-kilter. He’s rubbing his temple like the light hurts him.
I paused the footage and rose from my chair. I moved to the wall panel, flipping through another secured channel, then opened a drawer and pulled out a backup ledger.
I scanned quickly, eyes hunting confirmation. The procurement clearance passed through internal Tier 2—the one Reid had been pushing to streamline for months.
I crossed to the server cabinet, opened the main housing, and ran my hand along the secondary data cartridge. Still warm. Chloe’s access code had been used at this terminal earlier today.
Not her credentials—just her code. Probably Reid. Maybe someone else. But it told me she was watching our systems now, not just people.
I stared at the screen. It’s wasn’t definitive. But it doesn’t have to be.
The glass. The timing. Chloe’s smile. Reid’s silence in the days that followed. The unspoken tension in every room we’ve shared since.
Chloe playing perfectly sweet in public while Emily remains two steps behind, still assuming the knives at her back are dulled.
Chloe has been maneuvering. And if I’m right, she’s not working alone.
I close the footage and open the clearance logs. Maren was thorough; she included Reid’s access patterns for the following morning.
And there it is.
At 06:48 the next day, a new auxiliary account is approved for Chloe. Low clearance, masked under a vendor ID, but active.
Reid authorized it. No oversight. No audit request. No consultation.
I walked to the cabinet in the corner, unlocked the drawer, and pulled out a file labeled Discreet Internal Risk. Chloe’s name hadn’t been in it—until now.
I wrote it in, sharp and clean, and flagged the page with a red tab. It wasn’t evidence. But it was preparation.
Then I grabbed a fresh folder from the shelf and opened a new page. I didn’t title it—just wrote down times, entry codes, clearance flags.
I moved between the desk and terminal, cross-referencing entries with a practiced efficiency, even as my jaw locked tighter with every confirmation and every inconsistency.
I printed the flagged requisitions and clipped them together, sliding them into a marked drawer with a click.
I returned to the desk, restless now. I pushed back the keyboard. Stacked the folders again. Unstacked them. Re-aligned the pens in my tray. It didn’t help calm my irritation.
I sat back slowly, folding my hands under my chin, letting the pieces settle…Chloe manipulated him. Maybe through blackmail. Maybe through something worse.
But what matters now is this: I have a pattern. I have circumstantial evidence. But I don’t have proof airtight enough to act. Not yet.
If I move too soon, Reid will deny it, Chloe will twist it, and Emily— I shut my eyes briefly.
Emily’s been holding so much already. The thought of telling her that Chloe isn’t just a petty snake but an active threat?
That her sister may have compromised the entire structure she’s finally starting to believe she belongs in?
No. Not until I can make it undeniable. Not until I can shield her from the fallout.
I open a message tab. Type her name.
Emily—
I paused, her name blinked back at me from the unsent message on the screen.
I need to show you something.
Six words. Clean. Direct and honest. But loaded like a bullet. My finger hovered over the send key. Then withdrew. I stood and crossed to the far window.
Reid was likely still awake. Or pacing. Or cursing the trap he’d stepped into.
But this wasn’t about him. It was about Emily. And what it would mean for her to know.
She’d worked so hard to build something steady out of the ruins her father left her. She didn’t complain. Didn’t ask for sympathy. Just moved forward, every day—fighting tooth and nail for legitimacy, for dignity, for acceptance.
And Chloe was ready to tear it all down because she couldn’t bear not being chosen.
I thought about the way Emily had touched my hand earlier on the balcony. A quiet, grounding contact.
I could tell her. I could open the door to what I’d found—half-truths and grainy footage and implications that would have serious consequences.
She’d believe me. And it would devastate her. It would confirm what she already felt: that love from her family was conditional.
The cursor on the console blinked like it was breathing. Waiting. I walked back, stared at the words again. I didn’t want to be the one to hurt her.
Not when she was finally standing taller. Not when her hands had finally stopped shaking when she spoke in meetings. Not when her smile—rare as it was—had started to look easier.
I hit delete.
Each word vanished after the previous.
I shut the console slowly, letting the low whir of the fan die out. Then I rose and moved around the desk one more time, checking that the files were locked away, terminals cleared, drawers sealed.
It was late, but my mind wouldn’t let me leave anything unfinished—not tonight.
I sat back down slowly, hands braced on the edge of the desk and whispered into nothing: “I’ll protect her from this. Even if it means protecting her from the truth.”