Chapter 15 Bathroom Sacrifice

# Chapter 15: Bathroom Sacrifice

Albert Friedrich's mistress lived in a luxury building on the Upper East Side—a sleek glass tower where the billionaire had purchased the entire thirty-second floor under an LLC. Victoria Kang, former model turned "art consultant," was thirty years Albert's junior with a reputation for discretion, compensated with a lifestyle few could imagine.

"She's the weak link," I explained to Elliot as we surveyed the building from our vantage point in Central Park. "Albert sees her as an asset, not a person. She knows things he never intended to share."

Elliot raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Pillow talk," I clarified. "Men like Albert view their mistresses as extensions of themselves—safe repositories for thoughts they can't share elsewhere. Victoria has likely heard things about the foundation, about Winton, maybe even about Lucas."

*How do we approach her?* Elliot wrote. *Security will be tight.*

"We don't approach her directly," I replied, checking my watch. "According to her schedule, she has a standing appointment at Bergdorf's private shopping suite in thirty minutes. We intercept her there."

The plan was simple but effective. I would pose as a personal shopper, gaining a few precious minutes alone with Victoria before security realized something was amiss. Not enough time to build trust or extract detailed information, but enough to plant the seed of doubt—and a specially designed listening device disguised as a designer earring.

"Once she's wearing it, we'll have ears in her apartment," I explained. "When Albert visits tonight—which he will, given the stress he's under—we'll hear everything."

Elliot nodded, but his expression remained troubled. He wrote quickly: *She's a potential witness. Albert will eliminate her if he suspects she knows too much.*

His concern was valid. By targeting Victoria, we might be putting her in danger. But time was running short, and we needed the additional leverage her information could provide.

"We'll warn her," I decided. "Subtly. Give her a chance to protect herself."

Bergdorf Goodman's private shopping suite was an exercise in hushed opulence—plush carpets, champagne on ice, and deferential staff catering to women who considered five-figure shopping sprees routine entertainment. I blended seamlessly into this environment as Margaux, a French personal stylist with an exclusive client list.

Victoria Kang arrived precisely on schedule—tall, willowy, with the kind of ethereal beauty that made ordinary humans feel like a different species. She moved with the confident grace of someone accustomed to being watched, trailing a security guard who positioned himself discreetly by the entrance.

"Ms. Kang," I greeted her in Margaux's French-accented English. "What a pleasure. I've selected several pieces I believe will complement your exceptional coloring."

She offered a practiced smile, accustomed to flattery. "Wonderful. I'm particularly interested in evening wear. I have an important gallery opening next week."

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"Of course." I guided her toward the private fitting area, carefully positioning myself to block the security guard's line of sight. "I've included several options from the designers you favor."

Once inside the fitting room—a spacious suite with multiple mirrors and a seating area—I handed her a stunning black gown with strategic cutouts. "Perhaps start with this? It's generating significant buzz in Paris."

As she examined the dress, I moved to adjust the lighting, casually engaging the electronic jammer that would temporarily disrupt the store's security cameras and give us true privacy.

"You know," I said conversationally, "I dressed Madeline Pierce years ago. You remind me of her."

Victoria froze, her practiced composure slipping momentarily. "I'm not familiar with that name."

"No? That's strange." I met her eyes in the mirror. "Albert speaks of her often in his sleep, I'm told."

Her face paled. "Who are you really?"

"Someone concerned about your safety." I maintained Margaux's accent but dropped the subservient tone. "Albert Friedrich is under investigation for serious crimes. When powerful men fall, their mistresses often suffer unfortunate accidents."

"I should call security," she said, reaching for her phone.

"Before you do," I countered, "ask yourself why Albert suddenly changed his will last week to remove the provision for you. Ask why he's liquidating the assets in the shell company that owns your apartment."

Her hand stilled. These were calculated guesses on my part, but based on Albert's pattern of behavior, likely accurate ones. The flicker of recognition in her eyes confirmed I'd hit close to the mark.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Information, eventually. For now, I want you to wear these." I presented a box containing stunning diamond drop earrings. "A gift from someone who values your continued well-being."

She examined the earrings—genuine diamonds worth at least twenty thousand dollars, with the listening device seamlessly integrated into the setting.

"They're beautiful," she admitted. "And bugged, I assume?"

Her directness surprised me. Perhaps she wasn't merely the decorative accessory Albert believed her to be.

"Smart and beautiful," I acknowledged. "A dangerous combination in Albert's world."

"You have no idea." She put the earrings on, studying her reflection. "What happens when I leave here?"

"You go about your day normally. When Albert visits tonight, wear these. Say nothing about our meeting."

She met my eyes again, something hard and calculating in her gaze. "And if I hear something useful?"

"There's a number programmed in your phone under 'Bergdorf Personal Shopper.' Text the word 'delivery' to schedule another appointment."

Victoria considered this, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "You should leave first. My security will check the fitting room when I'm done."

As I turned to go, she added, "Whatever you think you know about Albert Friedrich, it's worse."

"That's what I'm counting on," I replied, slipping out through the staff entrance as my jammer reactivated the security cameras.

Elliot was waiting in our car across the street, anxious after the longer-than-planned interaction. When I slid into the seat beside him, he immediately wrote: *Success?*

"Better than expected," I confirmed. "She's wearing the earrings and seems... receptive."

He looked surprised. *She's cooperating? Why?*

"Self-preservation, most likely. She's smart enough to recognize which way the wind is blowing."

As our driver navigated through midtown traffic, I activated the receiver for our listening device, confirming it was operational. Victoria's voice came through clearly as she discussed purchase options with the Bergdorf sales associate, giving no indication of our encounter.

"Now we wait," I told Elliot. "Albert will seek comfort tonight after another day of damage control. When he does, we'll be listening."

Back at our safe house, we continued assembling our evidence for tomorrow's release—organizing documents, verifying sources, preparing the comprehensive narrative that would expose the entire Albert-Pierce operation. By evening, we had created multiple secure packages ready for distribution to journalists, law enforcement agencies, and regulatory bodies worldwide.

Just after nine, the listening device activated with movement sounds in Victoria's apartment. Albert had arrived.

We listened as he poured himself a drink, complaining about the media scrutiny and the board's questions. Victoria played her part perfectly—sympathetic, supportive, asking just enough questions to keep him talking.

"Lucas is being transferred to Switzerland tomorrow," Albert revealed after his second scotch. "Specialist clinic near Zurich. Officially for 'advanced treatment,' unofficially to get him beyond the reach of American prosecutors."

"Is that necessary?" Victoria asked. "I thought your legal team was handling the video situation."

"The video is problematic but manageable. It's what Winton found in his office after the fire that concerns me." Albert's voice grew lower. "Someone accessed our records. Took files. Possibly copied others before destroying them."

"What kind of files?"

"Nothing you need to worry about." His tone shifted to suspicious. "Why the interest?"

"Just concerned about you," she soothed. "You seem more stressed than usual."

The conversation shifted to safer topics—an upcoming charity gala, board member gossip—before moving to the bedroom, where we respectfully muted the audio. But the information about Lucas's planned transfer was crucial. They were moving faster than we'd anticipated.

"We need to accelerate our timeline," I decided. "Release everything at midnight instead of waiting for morning."

Elliot nodded in agreement, then froze as Victoria's voice suddenly came through our speaker again, unexpectedly clear as if she'd moved to the bathroom while Albert slept.

"I know you're listening," she said softly. "There's something you should know. Check the foundation's quarterly filing from 2018, fourth quarter. Page seventeen, footnote about 'special disbursements.' It lists a property in Thailand where they keep the youngest girls."

My blood ran cold. Victoria knew far more than we'd realized.

"I've been gathering evidence for two years," she continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Building my own insurance policy. There's a flash drive in my desk at the gallery—hidden compartment in the right drawer. The password is 'Madeline1971.' Get it before he does."

The transmission cut off abruptly. Elliot and I exchanged alarmed looks.

*We need that drive,* he wrote urgently.

"Agreed, but we can't both go. Someone needs to stay and manage the evidence release."

After a brief debate, we decided I would go to Victoria's gallery while Elliot finalized our midnight data dump. It was a risk splitting up, but a necessary one given the time constraints.

The gallery was in Chelsea—a sleek, minimalist space specializing in emerging Asian artists. At this hour, it was closed and dark, but the security system yielded to my electronic lockpick. Inside, I moved quickly to Victoria's office, a glass-enclosed space at the rear of the main exhibition area.

Her desk was as minimalist as the gallery—clean lines, few personal items, nothing to suggest the owner's connection to one of the city's wealthiest men. The right drawer opened easily, but the hidden compartment took precious minutes to locate—a false bottom revealed only when pressing a specific point on the drawer's edge.

Inside was a single flash drive, unmarked except for a small diamond sticker. I pocketed it without connecting it to any device—security protocols dictated all unknown storage be checked on air-gapped systems first.

As I closed the drawer, movement in the main gallery caught my attention—a shadow passing one of the front windows. Someone was here.

I killed the desk lamp and moved silently toward the emergency exit at the back of the office. Before I could reach it, my phone vibrated with a text from Elliot:

*URGENT: Victoria dead. Apparent suicide. Breaking news just now.*

Impossible. I'd spoken with her hours ago. She'd been lucid, strategic, planning for her future. This wasn't suicide; it was elimination.

The shadow moved closer to the office. I crouched behind a sculpture, weighing my options. If Albert's people were here, they were likely after the same flash drive I'd just recovered. I needed to escape without confirming my presence.

The office door opened. A beam of light swept across the room as a figure entered—tall, male, moving with professional precision. Not a common security guard, but someone with tactical training. He went directly to the desk, opening the right drawer with practiced ease.

I used his momentary distraction to slip from my hiding place toward the emergency exit. Almost there...

A floorboard creaked beneath my foot. The beam of light swung in my direction.

"Stop right there," a voice commanded—familiar, chilling.

Winton Pierce.

I ran, shoving through the emergency exit and triggering the alarm. Behind me, I heard Winton curse and follow. The alley behind the gallery offered little cover, but I had the advantage of preparation—I knew the escape routes while Winton was improvising.

I ducked into a service entrance for the neighboring building, racing up a stairwell to the roof access. My earpiece crackled as Elliot tried to reach me.

"I'm okay," I whispered. "Winton was at the gallery. I have the drive but he's in pursuit."

"Police are at Victoria's apartment," Elliot reported. "Official story is already out—suicide by drowning in her bathtub. News saying she left a note confessing to fabricating evidence against the Alberts."

Of course. They were framing her as the source of the leaked video, painting her as a jilted mistress seeking revenge. With her conveniently dead, she couldn't refute their narrative.

"They're eliminating loose ends," I said, reaching the roof and moving to the fire escape on the far side. "We need to release everything now, before they can silence anyone else."

"Already done," Elliot confirmed. "Initial packages went to journalists five minutes ago. Full data dump launches in twenty minutes."

I descended the fire escape into a different alley, putting maximum distance between myself and the gallery before hailing a taxi. The drive had been worth the risk—if Victoria had been collecting evidence for two years, it could contain details even we hadn't uncovered.

Back at the safe house, Elliot was monitoring multiple screens showing news feeds and social media reactions. The first journalists were already posting about the "massive evidence dump" they'd received, promising full stories within hours.

"Victoria's death is the third marker," I noted grimly, showing Elliot the flash drive. "First Lucas's 'suicide attempt,' then Winton's office fire, now this. They're eliminating evidence and witnesses systematically."

He nodded solemnly, writing: *She wrote something in the bathroom. With lipstick.*

"How do you know?"

He turned one of the screens toward me, showing a leaked photo from the crime scene—Victoria's elegant bathroom with marble fixtures and gold accents. On the mirror, written in red lipstick: "The Third."

A chill ran down my spine. "The third what?"

*Victim,* Elliot wrote. *She knew she was being sacrificed.*

The implication was clear. Victoria had realized Albert intended to eliminate her and had left us a message—she was the third in what might be a series of eliminations. Who else was on their list?

"We need to decode this flash drive immediately," I decided, setting up our secure analysis laptop.

The password "Madeline1971" worked as Victoria had indicated. The contents were meticulously organized—folders for each year Victoria had been with Albert, containing photos, recorded conversations, financial records, and personal notes.

"She was building a case," I realized, scanning the files. "Not just protection for herself—she was genuinely documenting their crimes."

The most recent folder contained something unexpected—surveillance photos of me. Claire Fontaine entering the Albert Tower for my interview. Claire shopping at Whole Foods. Claire jogging in Central Park.

"They were watching me from the beginning," I murmured. "They knew something was off about my background."

But the most disturbing discovery came in a subfolder labeled "Bangkok Operations." It contained photographs of young women—girls, really—being escorted from private planes to waiting cars at a small airstrip. Metadata showed the location as a private airport outside Bangkok. Among the men visible in several photos was Albert Friedrich himself, personally overseeing the "shipment."

"This is direct evidence," I said, voice shaking with anger and disgust. "Not just money laundering or covering up Lucas's crimes. Albert is actively involved in human trafficking."

Elliot's face had gone pale as he viewed the images. He wrote with trembling hands: *We need to get this to authorities immediately.*

"The regular data dump didn't include these files," I realized. "We need to create a supplemental package."

As we worked to compile this new evidence, my secure phone rang—the burner I'd given to our journalist contact at the Washington Post.

"Claire," she said without preamble, "are you safe?"

"For now. Why?"

"Because Albert Friedrich just announced a press conference for 6 AM. His PR team is hinting at 'shocking revelations about the conspiracy against his family.' Whatever you're planning, you need to move faster."

After hanging up, I shared the warning with Elliot. "They're preparing a counter-narrative. Probably planning to frame Victoria for everything while painting themselves as victims."

He nodded grimly, then wrote something that chilled me to the bone: *They'll come for us tonight. Last loose ends.*

He was right. With Lucas secured, Winton's office burned, and Victoria eliminated, Elliot and I were the only remaining threats to their empire. And they knew exactly how dangerous we were.

"Finish the supplemental data package," I instructed. "I'll prepare our exit strategy."

As I gathered our essential documents and equipment, I couldn't shake the image of Victoria's bathroom message: "The Third." Not a warning about herself, I realized suddenly, but about the pattern. Lucas, Winton's office, Victoria... and next would be Elliot and me. The fourth and fifth eliminations.

They were coming for us, and soon. Our only defense was to ensure the truth reached the public before they could silence us permanently.

"Elliot," I called softly. "How much do you know about your brother's medication?"

He looked up, confused by the apparent non sequitur. *Insulin dependent since steroid abuse damaged his pancreas. Why?*

"Because," I said, a plan forming, "we might need to stage our own elimination before they can execute theirs."

Understanding dawned in his eyes as he wrote: *Fake our deaths?*

"Not exactly," I replied. "But make them think they've succeeded long enough for all the evidence to go public. Are you with me?"

His answer was immediate and resolute: *Always.*

As dawn approached, we finalized our preparations—both for the evidence release and for the confrontation we knew was coming. Victoria's death had changed something fundamental in our approach. This was no longer just about my revenge or Elliot's freedom.

It was about justice for all the women whose lives had been destroyed by the Albert-Pierce empire. The unnamed girls in those Bangkok photos. Madeline Pierce, buried under a boat house. The dozens of victims silenced by Winton's legal maneuvers.

And now Victoria, who had died trying to expose the truth.

Whatever happened to us in the coming hours, their stories would finally be told.