Chapter 4 The House of Babel

In a place like Ontario, an unknown billionaire was unusual, especially for someone who didn't bat an eye when half a million left their account.

Charlie wasn't just a private investigator; he was a man who read the city like a living newspaper. He knew the names that mattered. The old families whose fortunes were written in stone, the new money flashing like neon, the whispers in cigar lounges and underground clubs. But "Babel?" Nothing.

No headlines, no gala photos, no scandalous affairs or tragic deaths or philanthropic gestures. Not a damn peep. "Rich. Very rich," she'd claimed. But Charlie couldn't recall the last time he'd even overheard the name in passing. It was like stumbling upon a hidden mansion in a city you thought you knew inch by inch.

The kind of anomaly that made his instincts flare, a sixth sense honed by years of lies and missing persons. Something was off, and off meant questions.

He spun around and opened his laptop, which wheezed and blinked like an old dog being woken from a nap. The screen flickered, displaying the usual battlefield of sticky notes and outdated browser tabs. Still laggy, still frustrating, but it came alive eventually.

Charlie cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the room like gunfire, and began typing with a purpose. "Babel Ontario Billionaire."

His fingers moved quickly, searching for something to match the mystery lingering in his gut. The first hit blinked back at him: a company profile. Babel Holdings. He clicked without hesitation.

What opened was a sprawling profile of a multinational investment conglomerate. Babel Holdings operated in finance, real estate, green energy, and offshore logistics-every buzzword of modern empire-building wrapped into one sleek machine. Headquartered in Ontario, yes, but its reach spread like ivy-Tokyo, Zurich, São Paulo, Lagos.

It was the kind of company that didn't just participate in the global economy; it shaped it. The valuation? Over $8.3 billion, according to the last report. Charlie blinked at the number, reread it just to be sure. Billion. With a B. The Babels weren't just rich. They were so far past rich it bent the definition.

He dove deeper. His browser tabs multiplied like roaches. News articles, financial deep dives, dated interviews. And there he was-Gregory Babel. Founder. CEO. A ghost in the flesh. Born in Quebec, raised in Ottawa, a math prodigy who'd made his first million before turning twenty-five. Cut his teeth in Silicon Valley's shark tank, then returned to Canada with sharper teeth and a deeper wallet.

His reputation was formidable: press-shy, brilliant, ruthless when needed. No criminal record, no lawsuits that stuck, no scandals with legs. Married. One child-deceased. His investments were a labyrinth, designed to blur lines and avoid attention. He didn't own yachts or penthouses; he owned the companies that built them.

The man didn't just stay out of the news. He swallowed the headlines before they could print. Gregory Babel wasn't invisible. He was a giant hiding behind mirrors.

So how the hell had Charlie never heard of him? That was the part that refused to let go. Charlie prided himself on knowing the players in this game, and Gregory Babel played it like a phantom king. Maybe it was calculated. Maybe Babel had built his fortune on silence-no fashion weeks, no Cannes appearances, no accidental run-ins with paparazzi.

He lived in a world above noise, influencing decisions with quiet power. He was the kind of man who could make a politician sweat with a single phone call-and yet, to the average citizen, he didn't exist.

Charlie redirected his search to the woman herself. Veronica Babel. He typed with more care now, half-expecting her to leap out of the screen. But the result? Nothing. Not a ghost of a maiden name. No school records, no employment history, no address before her marriage. No social media-hell, not even a tagged party photo or a blurry vacation snap. Just silence. Like she had emerged, fully formed, the moment she said "I do."

Charlie leaned forward, eyes narrowing. He refined the search again, this time trying, "Gregory Babel wife wedding." One hit. A single, dusty photo buried in a ten-year-old Globe & Mail article: "Elusive Financier Ties the Knot in Private Ceremony."

The image was grainy, shot from a distance. Gregory stood tall in a sharp gray suit, his features washed out by distance. And beside him, a younger woman in white. Her face was hidden by a large hat, its brim casting shadows that swallowed her identity. No guests listed. No location confirmed. Just a vague mention of the countryside estate. No background on the bride. No quotes, no press statements.

Just one sentence stuck out: "Sources say the woman, Veronica, has no public profile and was not known in social circles before the marriage."

Charlie's eyes sharpened. "No public profile?" he repeated softly.

That wasn't just unusual. In the circles of extreme wealth, everyone had a backstory. They were legacy kids, startup stars, European heiresses, or political daughters. But this? No school. No paper trail. No presence. Nothing before she became Veronica Babel. In the world of the ultra-rich, disappearing that thoroughly took serious effort.

Unless someone made it happen.

Charlie rubbed his jaw, the stubble catching on his palm. Unless someone-Veronica herself or maybe Gregory-wanted her past to vanish. That wasn't privacy. That was surgical removal. And in his experience, people erased their pasts for one of two reasons: to escape something... or someone. Either way, it meant danger. Secrets. Stakes. He closed the browser with a click, shutting the lid like sealing a casket. Whatever was buried beneath Veronica's surface-it wasn't ready to stay buried.

He stood up slowly, bones groaning in time with the old chair. This wasn't the moment to fall into that digital rabbit hole. Not yet. He needed information from boots on the ground. Charlie reached for his coat, slipping it on with practiced ease.

He holstered his notebook-the worn leather one that had outlasted three phones-and slid a pen behind his ear. Time to head to the 5th Precinct on Maple and Thorn. If anyone had dirt on the Babels, or this strange case, it'd be the boys in blue. The cops had long memories and longer tongues when greased right.

Charlie locked the office door behind him and took the creaky stairs two at a time, landing in the street as a light rain began to mist across the city. It was the kind of rain that didn't soak you but made your skin prickle. A quiet rain. The kind that made you feel watched. He flipped up the collar of his coat, lit a cigarette, and exhaled into the hush. As he walked toward the precinct, he tried not to think about Veronica.

Tried.

But her image lingered anyway, like the smoke curling from his cigarette. The tilt of her head. The deliberate way she paused between words. The strange cold behind her eyes, even when she smiled. Charlie didn't trust her. Not entirely.

But then again, trust wasn't a tool in his line of work-it was a liability. Still, something about her didn't just confuse him. It unsettled him. And he wasn't sure if it was the mystery she wore like perfume...

Or the creeping feeling that he wasn't chasing a case anymore.

He was being pulled into someone else's game.

And he hadn't even seen the board yet.