Page 4 of Surprise Bratva Daddy

3

Monroe

Iknow I’m not supposed to be seeing this, but I can’t stop scrolling. Thousands of entries flying past my eyes, almost too quick to process, detailing the future price of major stocks.

I know in my gut that these aren’t simply predictions. They’re a glimpse into the future, insider trading that wasn’t meant to be seen by someone like me.

Whoever is behind this must already be filthy rich. Anyone with this much data would be able to make billions in the stock market overnight, which also means they’re likely dangerous. If I know one thing about rich people, it’s that they have a knack from making their problems disappear.

And right now, I think I’ve become the problem.

Despite my dire concerns, I continue scrolling through the document, my brain absorbing the fascinating information within it. There are descriptions of shareholder meetings, future announcements, and planned manipulation of prices.

With this information, I could transform my shrinking inheritance into a large fortune, capable of moving me out of my house and into a California mansion. I can already feel the sun on my skin and the cool blue water beneath me as I float in my future pool.

I think I’d have a personal chef, perhaps a man who would give me massages and throw in a little extra when the mood called for it. Someone with a lot of muscle and more than a few tattoos.

I’ve never really cared much for money, only the lack of work it results in. I don’t mind not having a job. I’m more of a stay at home and read books all day kind of girl, anyway.

Now, however, my imagination demands much more than books. It’s drifting away into dream land, where I’m rich and can buy anything I want, including protection from whoever is supposed to get this flash drive.

My brain soaks in the data like a sponge, and although I feel a glimmer of guilt in the back of my mind, it’s nothing compared to the rush I get from knowing the future of the stock market.

The soonest date I can find is a month from now. That’s when the action starts, and that’s when I get rich. Maybe if I package the box back up, putting the flash drive back where I found it, nobody will know I got the data at all.

I don’t even have to make a copy. I have enough in my head, and thanks to my photographic memory and the emotional impact of my discovery, I’m not going to forget it.

My heart is beating so fast as I go through the file, reading everything inside before ripping the flash drive out of my computer and charging back to the box where it came from. I toss it into the white tissue paper, closing the box and spinning it around on the table to get a better view of the damage I’ve done to the wrapping.

If I tape it, they’ll know I tampered with it, but if I leave it torn like this and put it back into my mailbox, it might be blamed on the person who delivered it. But what if they deny having messed it up? What then? The blame will come back to me.

I shouldn’t have opening it in the first place. That was a stupid thing to do, and now I can feel the panic starting to set in. They’re going to know I messed with it. My fingerprints are all over the smooth metallic surface of the flash drive.

I groan, opening the back again and retrieving the drive. I wipe it down with a dish towel, tossing it back into the box without allowing it to touch my skin.

It was a mistake. People make mistakes all the time, and nobody is going to blame me for accidentally opening a box that was in my mail. It was delivered to my house. I assumed it was mine.

But whoever created this is obviously a criminal. Insider trading is illegal, and that means I’m dealing with someone potentially dangerous. Who’s to say they won’t just kill me to keep me from talking about what I saw?

Ironically, reporting me to the police would be the best outcome here.

I take a deep breath, gripping the chair by the table so hard my knuckles feel like they’re about to split. I shouldn’t have done any of this, and now I’m in real trouble. Being a snitch isn’t quite my style, but it might be the safest option.

I grab my phone from the couch, dialing the emergency number. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

Maybe I’m being dramatic. Is this even what I think it is? Is it really insider trading, or is this just someone’s research?

My mind is racing, but there’s no time to make a decision, because it gets made for me.

There’s a knock on the door, deep and loud. It’s so jarring that I drop my phone, the screen breaking the second it hits the wooden floor. I let out a yelp, knowing what this means. I’ve been caught, and there’s no way for me to hide my guilt.

The package is on the table, still open, exposing my sinful deeds.

I don’t want to answer the door, but it’s impossible to pretend like I’m not home. My modest car is parked out front, and the hallway light is visible through the little stained glass window atop the doorframe.

My entire body is electric, crackling with fresh anxiety as another knock threatens to bring down the front door. Whoever is out there isn’t knocking to be let in. They’re knocking to force their way in.

And I’m totally helpless.

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