The 99th Voucher-His Maybach's Secret

My family went bankrupt, and I was left with nothing but crippling debt. Then Julian appeared, paid off my debts, and wrote me exactly one hundred love letters. He promised to grant my every wish, and I swore to honor one hundred of his requests unconditionally. But recently, he returned from a business trip acting incredibly stiff and distant. I thought he was just exhausted, until I saw his first love step out of his Maybach, covered in hickeys. I hid behind the concrete pillar in the garage and overheard them. "Just use another request voucher to make her sign the property transfer," she giggled, fixing her lipstick. "She's so stupid she honors them blindly." "Only two left, baby," Julian whispered, pulling her by the waist. "Then the stupid bitch is gone for good."

***

My fingers clamped around the plastic handle of the iron. Steam hissed against the fabric of Julian's spare dress shirt. I pressed the metal plate down hard, erasing the creases, just as I had erased my own past for him.

The front door clicked open, and Julian stepped into the hallway.

"You didn't text," I said, setting the iron upright on the board.

He dragged his silver suitcase across the hardwood floor. "My battery died."

"For two days?"

"It was a busy conference, Clara." He avoided my eyes, leaving the luggage by the console table.

He stepped into my space and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. His muscles locked. A stiff, rigid embrace that lasted less than a second before he pulled back.

The smell hit my nose instantly.

Synthetic vanilla and aggressive jasmine. Serena's perfume.

"You smell different," I said.

"It's the hotel soap," he replied quickly. He tugged at his collar, putting distance between us. "San Francisco was a nightmare. Back-to-back meetings. I barely slept."

"You look rested."

"Well, I'm not." He unbuttoned his cuffs, refusing to look at me. "Did you call the caterers for the launch party next week?"

"I handled it. Just like I handled the server crash on Tuesday while you were unreachable."

"That's what IT is for," he said, turning his back to me.

"IT couldn't fix the core algorithm. I had to rewrite the patch."

"And I appreciate it." His tone held zero gratitude.

Four years ago, I erased my identity as a top-tier hacker. I built his company's foundation in the dark, handing him all the credit. In exchange for the hundred love letters he once wrote me, he gave me a glass jar of a hundred unconditional request vouchers. A romantic gesture, he called it. A promise that he would always owe me.

He reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a thick slip of parchment paper, and slapped it onto the kitchen counter.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Number ninety-eight," Julian said.

I looked at the paper, then at the glass jar beside the sink. Only two folded slips remained.

"You're cashing one in," I said, my voice flat. "Right after a business trip."

"I need a favor tomorrow."

"You usually just ask for favors. You only use the vouchers when you know I'll say no."

"I don't have the energy to argue tonight," he snapped. "I need you to go to the airport tomorrow at noon. Pick up the new senior consultant."

"A consultant. For what?"

"The upcoming merger. We need fresh eyes on the architecture."

"I wrote the architecture."

"Four years ago, Clara! Tech evolves. We need someone who understands the current landscape."

"And who exactly is this new expert?"

Julian finally looked at me. His jaw tightened. "Her name is Serena. She's flying in from the coast."

The synthetic vanilla scent suddenly made sense. It burned my throat.

"Serena," I repeated.

"Yes. She's vital to the deal. I want her settled into the corporate apartment smoothly. No hiccups."

"Why me?" I asked. "You have an assistant. You have a corporate driver."

"Because it requires a personal touch," Julian said. "I want her to feel welcome. I want her to know she's valued by the founders."

"I am the founder."

"You're a silent partner," he corrected sharply. "On paper, you don't exist."

"Because you told me to hide."

"Because it protected us!" he shouted, throwing his hands up. "Why do we always go in circles?"

"You want me to play chauffeur for your new hire."

"I want you to be a team player," he corrected, tapping the parchment paper. "It's an unconditional request. You agreed to the rules. I'm calling it in."

"Do you remember when you gave me this jar?" I asked, pointing to the glass container.

"Clara, please. I'm tired."

"You asked for all your love letters back. You said they were a security risk if the company ever went public. So I handed them over, and you gave me these slips of paper."

"It was a fair trade."

"Was it? I gave up my career, my name, and my code. You gave me IOUs."

"You chose to step back," he fired back. "You wanted a quiet life."

"Did you spend a lot of time with her in San Francisco?" I asked, ignoring his excuse.

"We had meetings."

"Late meetings?"

"Strategic meetings," he retorted. "She's brilliant. She's exactly what this company needs right now."

"More than me."

"Don't do that. Don't play the victim." Julian paced toward the hallway. "Serena is hungry. She wants to be on the front lines."

"I see."

My right hand slipped into the pocket of my jeans. My fingertips found the hard edges of my burner phone. Inside that cheap plastic casing sat the backdoor access to the entire company network. A kill switch I built into the code, just in case.

"Will you pick her up or not?" he demanded.

I forced my lips to curve upward. I smiled at him. "Of course, Julian. I'll be at the terminal."

"Good." He exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders. "I'm grabbing a shower. I have a board call in twenty minutes. Don't interrupt me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

He walked down the hall. The bathroom door shut, and the lock clicked.

I stood alone in the kitchen. The aggressive jasmine scent lingered in the quiet room.

I picked up voucher ninety-eight. The handwriting was rushed. Not the careful, sweeping script he used during our first year together.

I walked over to the sofa where he had dumped his suit jacket. The gray wool looked rumpled. I grabbed the collar to hang it up.

"Let's see how strategic those meetings were," I whispered.

I smoothed out the lapels. My hand slid down the front panel and felt a hard square shape in the inner breast pocket.

I slipped my hand inside.

My fingertips touched two thick, embossed plastic cards.

I pulled them out into the light.

Two consecutive room keys from the Grand Marquis, San Francisco's most exclusive penthouse suite.