What The Numbers Betray

Chapter 1

Ivy

The beeping is the first thing I notice. A steady, insistent rhythm that drills into my skull. The second is the smell. Antiseptic and something else, something stale. I force my eyelids open. They feel like they’re lined with sand.

White. Everything is white. The ceiling, the sheets pulled up to my chin. My head throbs in time with the beeping.

"Ivy? Oh, my God, you're awake."

A voice cuts through the fog. Julian. His face swims into view, a mask of worried perfection. His blonde hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. How does he manage that? Even in a hospital.

"Julian?" My voice is a dry rasp.

"I'm here, my love. I'm right here." He takes my hand, his grip warm and possessive. He brings it to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "I was so scared. The doctors… they weren't sure."

I try to sit up, but a lance of pain shoots through my entire body. I fall back against the pillows with a gasp.

"Easy, easy," he coos, his hand stroking my forehead. "Don't try to move. You were in a terrible accident."

An accident. Flashes of light. The scream of tires. Blinding headlights. I flinch, the memory sharp and terrifying. "The truck..."

"It came out of nowhere," Julian says, his voice soft and soothing. "A semi. Lost its brakes on the hill, they think. You're so, so lucky, Ivy."

I close my eyes, trying to piece it together. It feels wrong. Hazy. As I look back at him, something shifts in my vision. A flicker. Above his perfectly coiffed hair, a faint shape materializes. It’s a number. A glowing, ethereal number '5'.

I blink hard. Once. Twice. The '5' remains, hovering in the air like a phantom brand.

"What is that?" I whisper, my throat tight.

Julian follows my gaze up to the ceiling. "What, baby? The water stain? Don't worry about that. This place is a dump, but it has the best neurosurgeons. I insisted."

He isn't seeing it. It’s just for me. A hallucination. It has to be. A concussion, the painkillers they must have me on. I try to shake my head, a small, painful gesture. "No, it's... nothing. I'm just… foggy."

"Of course, you are," he says, his thumb tracing circles on my cheek. It's a gesture that used to comfort me. Now it just feels… practiced. "You have a major concussion. A few broken ribs. But you're going to be fine. I'm going to make sure of it. I'll take care of everything."

He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head slightly so his lips land on my cheek. The glowing '5' bobs with his movement. It’s a pathetic little number. Small. Insignificant. It doesn't match the grand, sweeping pronouncements of his love.

"And don't you worry about the company," he continues, pulling back. "I've been fielding calls all day. Lena is handling the day-to-day, but I've told everyone that all major decisions have to wait for your sign-off. I won't let anyone take advantage."

Vance Industries. My company. The thought of it sends a jolt of anxiety through me. I built it from nothing. It’s my life. "I need my phone."

"No, no, no," Julian says, shaking his head with a patronizing smile. "No screens. Doctor's orders. You need to rest that brilliant brain of yours. Let me be your gatekeeper for a while. Just focus on getting better. For me."

His smile is dazzling. It’s the smile that charmed investors, the smile that won over my board, the smile that made me fall for him. But looking at it now, with that '5' floating above him, it looks like a costume. A beautiful, empty mask. The number even seems to flicker, dipping for a split second. A '4'? No, it’s back to a '5'.

I must be losing my mind.

A sharp knock on the door makes us both jump. A nurse pokes her head in. "Sorry to interrupt. You have another visitor, Ms. Vance."

Julian's smile tightens. "She's not taking visitors. She just woke up. Can't you see she needs to rest?" He directs his annoyance at the nurse, a flash of something hard in his eyes before it’s gone.

"He was very insistent," the nurse says, looking flustered. "He said it was important."

"I'm fine," I manage to say, my curiosity piqued. Who else would be here? My best friend and COO, Lena, would have called first.

Julian sighs, turning back to me and patting my hand. "Alright, my love. Five minutes. Then I'm kicking them out myself." He gives the nurse a curt nod.

The door opens wider, and my breath catches in my throat.

It's Rhys Blackwood.

He steps into the room and the entire atmosphere changes. The air crackles. Rhys is the CEO of Blackwood Dynamics, our fiercest competitor. The man is a shark in a tailored suit, and he’s standing in my hospital room. He looks out of place, a monolith of dark grey wool and starched white cotton against the sterile backdrop. His dark hair is perfectly cut, his jaw set. He doesn’t offer a smile. He never does.

"Vance," he says. His voice is a low baritone, clipped and formal. It’s the voice he uses in boardrooms right before he financially eviscerates someone.

"Blackwood," I reply, my own voice stronger now, fueled by adrenaline. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to see if your biggest problem has been permanently removed?"

Julian stands up, moving to position himself between me and Rhys. A protective gesture that feels more like a claim. "I think you should leave. This is hardly the time."

Rhys’s cool grey eyes flick from Julian to me, dismissing him entirely. It’s as if Julian is nothing more than a piece of furniture. "I was sorry to hear about the accident." It’s not an apology. It's a statement of fact.

"I'm sure you were," I say, my head pounding. I try to sit up a little straighter, wincing at the pull in my ribs. "The market must be thrilled."

"The market is volatile without you," he counters, taking a step closer to the bed. "Predictability is profitable. You're predictable."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation," he says.

I stare at him, this man I’ve spent the last five years battling. We've poached each other's employees, torpedoed each other's deals, and publicly insulted each other's innovations. He is ruthless, brilliant, and the only person in the industry I consider a true equal. And he is here.

Then I see it.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, because it’s so much brighter than Julian’s sad little '5'. Floating above Rhys Blackwood’s head, crisp and unwavering, is the number '95'.

It's so vivid it almost hums with energy. A brilliant, powerful number that seems to cast its own light.

I stare, mesmerized. My brain short-circuits. It makes no sense. None.

Julian, my loving boyfriend, the man holding my hand, the man whispering about our future together, has a '5'.

Rhys Blackwood, my corporate nemesis, the man who would probably dance on my company’s grave if given the chance, has a '95'.

"Are you alright, Vance?" Rhys's voice cuts through my shock. There's a flicker of something in his eyes. Not pity. Something else. Concern? "You're pale."

"She needs to rest," Julian insists, his voice rising. He turns to Rhys. "Your five minutes are up. Get out."

Rhys doesn't even look at him. His gaze is locked on mine. It’s intense, searching. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. He knows something is wrong, more than just the accident.

"The driver," Rhys says, his voice dropping slightly, meant only for me. "The police report says he was apprehended. Claimed his brakes failed."

"That's what they told me," I say, my eyes darting from the '95' above Rhys's head to the '5' above Julian's. The contrast is nauseating. A chasm of impossibility.

"Brakes fail," Rhys says slowly, deliberately. "But they rarely fail on a brand new truck from a fleet with a perfect maintenance record."

My blood runs cold.

"What are you implying?" Julian sputters, his face flushing with anger. "Are you trying to upset her? Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here with your conspiracy theories?" The number '5' above his head wavers again. It dips to a '4'. Just for a second. Then it’s back.

Rhys finally turns his head to look at Julian. A slow, deliberate movement. The look in his eyes is pure ice. "And who are you?"

The dismissal is so absolute, so profound, that Julian is momentarily speechless.

Rhys turns back to me. "I'll leave you to rest. Recover quickly, Vance. The field is boring without you."

He gives a single, sharp nod, turns, and walks out of the room. He doesn't say another word. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving a silence that feels heavier than before. The ghost of his '95' seems to still hang in the air.

Julian lets out an indignant huff. "The nerve of that guy. Unbelievable. He probably caused the accident himself." He rushes back to my side, grabbing my hand again. "Don't listen to him, Ivy. He's just trying to get in your head. You know how he is."

I look at him. At his handsome, concerned face. His grip on my hand is tight, almost painful. I look up at the number floating above him.

'5'.

It’s not a hallucination.

It's a warning.

My doting boyfriend, who can’t wait for me to get better. A '5'. My sworn enemy, who just hinted my accident was no accident. A '95'.

The sterile white room suddenly feels like a cage. Julian's sweet nothings sound like static. The seed of doubt planted by the impossible numbers begins to sprout, its roots twisting around my heart, cold and terrifying. Everything I thought I knew just shattered.

Chapter 2

Ivy

The penthouse feels wrong. It’s the same floor to ceiling windows, the same minimalist furniture I picked out myself, the same sprawling view of the city I conquered. But it feels like a cage now. A beautifully decorated, obscenely expensive cage.

"Careful, my love," Julian says, his arm wrapped firmly around my waist. His touch makes my skin crawl. "Just a few more steps."

He guides me to the cream-colored sofa as if I’m made of spun glass. I grit my teeth against the pain in my ribs, but more so against the sight of the glowing ‘5’ that bobs above his head. It followed us all the way from the hospital. A constant, infuriating little beacon of his bullshit.

"There we are," he says, arranging pillows behind my back with theatrical care. "Comfy? Can I get you anything? Water? More of your pain medication?"

"I’m fine, Julian. Just tired."

"Of course, you are. You need to rebuild your strength." He kneels in front of me, taking both my hands in his. His eyes are wide with sincerity. A world class performance. "I’ve cleared my schedule for the next two weeks. I’m all yours. I’ll be your chef, your nurse, your gatekeeper. Whatever you need."

I force a smile. It feels brittle, like it might crack my face in two. "Thank you. That’s… sweet."

The ‘5’ flickers. It doesn’t change, just wavers, as if my weak praise was somehow unsatisfying. I want to scream. I want to ask him what his game is. I want to know why my sworn enemy registers a ninety five on this bizarre emotional Richter scale while my devoted boyfriend can’t even break into double digits.

But I say nothing. Rhys Blackwood’s words echo in my mind. *Brakes rarely fail on a brand new truck.* He planted a seed. The numbers are watering it.

"I’ll make us some tea," Julian says, rising to his feet. He kisses my forehead, a lingering, proprietary gesture. "You just rest."

I watch him walk toward the kitchen. As soon as his back is turned, the number above his head dips. A clear, undeniable ‘4’. It lasts for only a second before snapping back to a ‘5’ as he glances over his shoulder to smile at me. My breath hitches. It’s not just a static rating. It fluctuates. It reacts. It’s real.

The buzzer for the private elevator chimes, startling me.

"I’ll get it," Julian calls from the kitchen. "You don’t move a muscle."

I hear his voice, smooth and charming. "Lena, so good to see you. She’s just getting settled."

My heart leaps. Lena. My best friend. My COO. My rock. She strides into the living room, her sharp black suit a welcome contrast to Julian’s soft cashmere sweater. Her gaze is sharp, analytical, cutting right through the fragile patient charade.

"Don’t you dare stand up," she warns, her voice warm but firm.

And then I see it. A glowing, steady ‘85’ hangs above her short, dark hair. It’s warm. It’s solid. It feels like truth. Relief washes over me so intensely I feel lightheaded.

She sits in the armchair opposite me, ignoring Julian as he hovers nearby. "How are you? And I want the real answer, not the press release."

"I feel like I was hit by a truck," I say, a small, genuine smile finally reaching my lips.

She allows a small smile in return. "Fair enough. You look… better than I expected. Less dead."

"Always a plus."

"I brought you the quarterly reports," she says, pulling a tablet from her briefcase. "Figured you’d be going stir crazy."

"Lena, no," Julian interjects, stepping forward. He places a hand on her shoulder. "The doctor was very clear. No work. No screens. She needs total rest."

I watch Lena’s number. It doesn’t waver. The ‘85’ is as solid as she is. She subtly shrugs off his hand.

"Ivy runs a billion dollar company, Julian. Her brain doesn’t just switch off. A market report is less stressful for her than wondering what’s happening without her."

Her loyalty is a physical thing, a warmth spreading through my chest. The ‘85’ seems to glow a little brighter.

"I’ll be the judge of what’s stressful for my girlfriend," Julian says, his tone hardening slightly before he plasters on another concerned smile. "She’s been through a trauma. The last thing she needs is pressure."

He looks at me, his eyes pleading. *See how I protect you? See how much I care?* The number above his head remains a steadfast ‘5’.

I need to know more. I need more data points.

"You’re both right," I say, playing the peacemaker. It’s a role I detest. "Lena, can you just give me the verbal summary? The highlights? No numbers, I promise." My head throbbed at the irony.

Lena’s eyes search mine. She knows me. She knows this passive, agreeable version of me is an act. But she nods. "Alright. Project Chimera is on schedule. The acquisition of OmniCore is hitting some regulatory snags, but nothing I can’t handle. And the board is… antsy. But I told them if I got one more call asking about a succession plan, I’d start leaking their terrible golf scores to the press."

I laugh, a real laugh, though it sends a jolt of pain through my ribs. "Good. Thank you, Lena."

"Always," she says. Her ‘85’ is the only thing in this room that makes sense.

Julian stands there, looking between us, his role as the sole protector momentarily usurped. He clears his throat. "Well, since you’re talking shop, I’ll go check on that tea."

He retreats to the kitchen. The moment he’s out of my direct line of sight, I see his number dip again in my periphery. Another flash of a ‘4’.

My paranoia is a living thing, coiling in my gut.

Later, after Lena leaves with a promise to return tomorrow, I find myself standing by the window, looking down at the street fifty stories below. The city lights are just beginning to glitter in the dusk. Julian is on the phone in his study, his voice a low, indistinct murmur.

I see Michael, the evening doorman, helping a woman with her shopping bags. He’s been here for years. A kind man with a daughter starting college, a fact I only know because I asked. I make sure he gets a generous bonus every Christmas.

I focus on him, trying to see. And there it is. Fainter, due to the distance, but clear. A ‘70’. A warm, pleasant orange number. It makes sense. He likes me. I’m a good tipper, a polite resident. We have a positive, if superficial, relationship. A seventy feels right.

This isn’t a hallucination. It’s a faculty. A sense I never had before. A terrible, clarifying new sense.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Julian’s voice comes from directly behind me. I jump, startled, and a sharp pain makes me cry out.

"Whoa, easy there." He immediately puts his arms around me, holding me steady. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you."

I lean against him, my body tense. I’m a snake coiled in his arms. I can feel the frantic beat of his heart against my back. Or maybe it’s my own. I look at our reflection in the dark glass. My face is pale, my expression guarded. His is a mask of loving concern. And above his head, that pathetic, infuriating ‘5’.

"I just needed to see the sky," I lie.

"You should have called me." He kisses the top of my head. "Come on. I made soup. Your favorite. Cream of tomato with grilled cheese croutons."

He leads me back to the sofa. He’s laid out a tray on the coffee table. A steaming bowl of soup, a glass of water, my pills arranged neatly in a small dish. It’s a perfect picture of loving care.

"You remembered," I say, my voice quiet. It was an offhand comment I made months ago, that my mother used to make me this soup when I was sick.

"I remember everything you say," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Because every word you say is important to me, Ivy."

His sincerity is flawless. His actions are perfect. Any woman would melt. Any woman would believe him. But I can see the number. It’s a lie. It’s all a lie. The soup, the memories, the gentle touch. It’s a performance.

"Eat," he says softly. "You need your strength."

I pick up the spoon. The soup is delicious. He’s a good cook. A good actor. I eat slowly, methodically, under his watchful gaze. Each spoonful feels like swallowing poison.

"I was thinking," he says, settling on the floor beside the sofa, looking up at me. "When you’re better, we should go away. Just the two of us. That villa in Tuscany we talked about. No phones, no work. Just us."

He talks about our future, painting a beautiful picture of sunlight and wine and love. He speaks of devotion and forever. He uses all the right words. And the whole time, the number above his head just sits there. A stubborn, solid ‘5’.

It doesn’t rise with his declarations of love. It doesn’t change when he talks about a future together. It’s a fixed point of falsehood in a sea of pretty words.

He thinks I’m broken. He thinks I’m a fragile thing he needs to manage. He has no idea that the accident broke something open inside me. It gave me a weapon. I can see the truth now, glowing above everyone’s head.

And the truth is, the man kneeling at my feet, the man who says he loves me more than life itself, barely feels anything for me at all.

"That sounds wonderful, Julian," I say, setting the empty bowl back on the tray. My voice is even, my smile is serene.

He beams, his own smile wide and triumphant.

I feel a chill spread through me that has nothing to do with the accident. It’s a cold, hard certainty. I’m living in a stranger’s house. I’m sleeping in a stranger’s bed. I am being played. And I am going to find out why.

Chapter 3

Ivy

The charade is exhausting. More exhausting than the broken ribs or the persistent, dull ache in my skull.

For three days, I have been a model patient. I let Julian feed me soup. I let him fluff my pillows. I let him read to me from novels I find mind numbingly dull. I smile when he smiles, and I offer a weak hand for him to hold.

And I watch his number. The stubborn ‘5’. It never changes. It’s a brand on him, a mark of his absolute, unwavering fraudulence.

“I have to step out for a bit this afternoon, my love,” he says, setting a tray with tea and toast on the ottoman. He’s dressed in a tailored suit today, a deep charcoal grey that makes his eyes look like chips of ice.

“Oh?” I ask, keeping my voice light. I take a sip of the tea. It’s chamomile. Of course it is.

“A business lunch. A potential new investor for one of my startups. I tried to cancel, but he’s flying out tonight and was terribly insistent.” Julian straightens his tie, a perfect silver knot. “I hate to leave you.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say, forcing another smile. “You have to work. I’ll be fine. I might even take a nap.”

“That’s my girl.” He leans down and kisses my cheek. His lips are cool. The ‘5’ bobs just inches from my face. “I’ll have my phone on me. Call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“I will,” I lie.

He gives me one last look, a performance of profound reluctance, and then he’s gone. The moment the elevator doors chime shut, the performance ends. My smile dissolves. I set the tea down, my hand steady. A business lunch.

I pull out the burner phone I had Lena bring me yesterday, hidden deep within the pages of a thick biography of Rockefeller she’d called ‘light reading’ with a wink. Her ‘85’ had been a lighthouse in the fog of Julian’s lies.

My fingers fly across the screen. I send a single text to a number I know by heart.

‘Car. Now. South entrance.’

The reply is instantaneous. ‘On my way, Ms. Vance.’

I stand up, ignoring the protest from my ribs. The patient act is over. I walk to my closet, pushing past the soft silks and cashmere Julian prefers to see me in. I grab a pair of black trousers, a simple grey silk shirt, and a dark trench coat. I twist my hair up, securing it under a black baseball cap I haven’t worn in years. In the mirror, I’m a shadow. Anonymous. Good.

Ten minutes later, I’m slipping out the service exit and into the back of a non descript black sedan idling at the curb. The man at the wheel is Arthur, my head of security. He’s a mountain of a man who has worked for me for a decade. He is quiet, efficient, and fiercely loyal.

A solid, reassuring ‘90’ glows above his bald head.

“Where to?” he asks, his voice a low rumble. He doesn’t ask why I’m dressed like a spy or why I’m using a burner phone.

“Follow Julian’s car. He left about ten minutes ago. Stay a block behind. He can’t see us.”

Arthur just nods, his eyes on the road. “I’ve already got him. Tagged his car this morning.”

The corner of my mouth quirks up. This is why Arthur’s number is a ninety. He anticipates. He acts.

We trail Julian’s silver sports car through the city. He’s not heading toward the financial district, where any legitimate investor lunch would be. He’s heading for the old industrial waterfront, a collection of gentrified warehouses converted into overpriced restaurants and empty art galleries.

He pulls up to ‘Veritas’, a place known more for its privacy than its food. It’s where deals are made in whispers, where secrets are the main course.

“Stop here,” I tell Arthur, pointing to a spot across the street with a clear view of the entrance. “Kill the engine.”

He does as I say. We sit in silence. I pull a pair of small, powerful binoculars from the glove compartment. Another thing I can always count on Arthur for.

I raise them to my eyes just as Julian steps out of his car. He hands his keys to the valet and smooths his suit jacket. He looks confident. Smug.

A moment later, another man arrives. He’s older, with a face like a collapsed building, all harsh lines and shadowed hollows. He’s thin and wears a cheap looking suit, but he walks with the predatory stillness of a snake.

My blood turns to ice. I know that man.

Marcus Thorne. They call him The Ghost in certain circles. He’s a corporate saboteur. A professional destroyer. He doesn’t invest in companies. He dismantles them. He ruins careers, manufactures scandals, makes evidence… disappear. People who cross Marcus Thorne have a habit of having very bad accidents.

My hands tremble slightly. I lower the binoculars. Brakes rarely fail on a brand new truck.

“Ms. Vance?” Arthur’s voice is quiet, but laced with concern.

“Do you know who that is?” I ask, my own voice flat, devoid of emotion.

He glances over. “Marcus Thorne. A real piece of work. What’s Julian doing with him?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

I watch them through the restaurant’s large front window. They take a secluded table in the back corner. Julian is talking, leaning forward, his hands gesturing animatedly. Thorne just listens, his face a stone mask. I can’t see their numbers from this distance, not clearly.

They talk for an hour. My spine feels fused to the leather seat. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight.

Finally, Thorne stands up. He shakes Julian’s hand, a quick, dry pump. Then he leaves. Julian remains seated, a satisfied smirk on his face. He orders another drink, a whiskey, and raises the glass in a small, private toast to himself.

He sips his drink, looking out the window. His gaze travels across the street, over our car, and up. Up towards the glittering spire of my penthouse, miles away but clearly visible against the afternoon sky.

And as he looks at my home, the place where he pretends to love and care for me, his expression shifts. The charming smile vanishes. It’s replaced by a look of pure, undiluted contempt. A sneer that twists his handsome features into something ugly. Something monstrous.

I don’t need the binoculars for this. Even from across the street, I can see the number above his head. The ‘5’ is gone. It doesn’t just dip or flicker. It plummets.

It crashes to a sickening, visceral ‘2’.

A ‘2’. That is the truth. That is the real Julian. The man who looks at my life, my home, my empire, and feels nothing but contempt. The man who hired a saboteur. The man who tried to have me killed.

The rage is so cold it feels like a physical thing, a shard of ice forming in my chest. There is no grief. No heartbreak. Those emotions are a luxury I can’t afford. Betrayal doesn’t break me. It focuses me.

I see it all now. The accident wasn’t about me. It was about my company. With me dead or incapacitated, my shares would be tied up. My will, which names Julian as a significant beneficiary, would come into play. He wouldn’t just get my money. He’d get a seat at the table. He’d get power.

He didn’t just try to kill me. He tried to steal my life’s work.

Julian finishes his drink, throws some cash on the table, and walks out. He gets in his car and drives away, heading back to my penthouse. Back to play the part of the doting boyfriend to the fragile woman he almost murdered.

I wait until his car is out of sight. My breath is even. My hands are steady again.

“Arthur,” I say, my voice as calm as a frozen lake.

“Ma’am.”

“I’m starting a new project. It’s off the books. Completely confidential. No data trail. No one knows but you and me. Do you understand?”

His ‘90’ is unwavering. “Perfectly.”

“I want you to pull everything on my accident. Not the police report. I want the original maintenance logs for that truck. The driver’s financials for the last five years. His known associates. Every scrap of data you can find. I want to know who paid him.”

“It’ll be done.”

“Second,” I continue, turning to look at him. “I want everything you can find on Marcus Thorne. His clients, his methods, his bank accounts. I want to know where he sleeps at night.”

“Understood.”

I take a deep breath. “And finally… I want a full surveillance package on Julian Croft. His phones, his financials, his movements. I want to know who he talks to, who he pays, who he screws. I want to know every lie he’s ever told.”

Arthur meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. His eyes are hard. “Consider it my top priority, Ms. Vance.”

The ice in my chest isn’t melting. It’s hardening. Sharpening into a weapon.

“Take me back,” I say. “Use the service entrance.”

It’s time to go home. The invalid is waiting for her nurse.