Chapter 118 The Web Of Lies

The library in the penthouse was dim, lit only by a desk lamp that cast long shadows over mahogany shelves stacked with first editions and secrets. Genevieve stood barefoot on the Persian rug, her silk robe clinging to her figure, damp at the collar from a recent cold shower. Her auburn hair was twisted into a messy knot, but her sharp gray eyes were wide awake, burning with purpose. She stared at the laptop screen. Caldwell’s name echoed in every file, but none offered more than the surface, a meticulously curated past that smelled of bleach and money. Too perfect. Too quiet.