Chapter 9 Nine

Chapter 9 Nine
Robert's office was small and cluttered, with filing cabinets lining every available wall and papers stacked on every surface. He looked up when I knocked, his expression weary.

"Isabella. Come in, please. Sorry about the mess."

"It's fine." I stepped inside and took the only available chair. "Mr. Pearson said you needed help with the financial records?"

Robert sighed and gestured to a mountain of paperwork. "I've been trying to reconcile our expenses for the past quarter, but the numbers aren't adding up. We're losing money somewhere, and I can't figure out where."

"May I?" I reached for the nearest stack.

"Please. Fresh eyes might help."

I spent the next two hours poring over invoices, receipts, and expense reports. Robert worked beside me, occasionally explaining their accounting system or answering my questions. He was patient and thorough, and I found myself actually enjoying the work. It reminded me of the early days of my boutique, when I'd spent countless hours balancing books and tracking inventory.

"Here," I said finally, pointing to a series of invoices. "You're being overcharged on your seafood deliveries."

Robert frowned and pulled the papers closer. "What do you mean?"

"Look at these prices compared to market rates. You're paying almost thirty percent more than you should be. And it's been consistent for the past six months." I pulled up my phone and showed him current market prices for comparison.

Robert's eyes widened. "How did I miss this?"

"It's easy to miss when you're looking at hundreds of invoices. But once you see the pattern..." I trailed off, pulling out more papers. "And here—your linen service. You're being charged for twice-weekly pickups but only receiving once-weekly service."

"Jesus." Robert ran his hand through his thinning hair. "Patrick used to handle all the vendor relationships personally. After he got sick, I just... I kept everything running, but I didn't think to question the contracts."

"It's not your fault. Vendors sometimes take advantage during transitions."

"Still. This is thousands of dollars a month we're wasting." He looked at me with something like respect. "How did you catch this so quickly?"

"I had to be careful with money in my boutique. Every dollar mattered." I didn't mention that despite my caution, I'd still failed. That my friends had still managed to steal from me, that I'd still lost everything.

"Well, your attention to detail is impressive. Let me show this to Alexander."

"No," I said quickly. Too quickly.

Robert raised his eyebrows. "No?"

"I mean... maybe you should present it as your findings. Mr. Pearson doesn't exactly value my input."

Understanding crossed Robert's face. "He's being hard on you, isn't he?"

"That's putting it mildly."

"For what it's worth, Patrick spoke very highly of you in the weeks before he died. He seemed excited about bringing you on board."

The statement jarred me. "He talked about me? But I never met him. How did he even know who I was?"

Robert hesitated. "I don't know the details. Patrick was very private about his personal life. But he definitely knew you. He had your business plan from the boutique, actually. I saw it in his office once. He'd made notes all over it."

My blood ran cold. "What?"

"Your business plan. The one you must have submitted when you first opened your shop. He had a copy."

"I never gave him a copy. I never met the man. How would he have it?"

Robert looked uncomfortable. "I assumed you'd sent it to him. Maybe as part of a proposal?"

"No. Never. I don't understand." My hands were shaking. How had Patrick Pearson gotten my business plan? Why had he been studying it?

Before I could press further, the office door swung open and Alexander strode in. His eyes immediately went to me, then to the papers spread across Robert's desk.

"What's going on here?"

"Isabella found some discrepancies in our vendor contracts," Robert said. "Significant ones. We're being overcharged by thousands each month."

Alexander's gaze swung to me, his expression unreadable. "Show me."

I walked him through what I'd found, pointing out the pricing inconsistencies and billing errors. He listened without interrupting, his jaw getting tighter with each example.

"This is the Marino account," he said finally, tapping one of the seafood invoices. "My father trusted them for twenty years."

"Then they shouldn't have any problem adjusting their prices to market rates," I said evenly.

"Or they've been taking advantage of our loyalty."

"Possibly."

Alexander was quiet for a long moment, staring at the papers. Then he looked at me, and I braced myself for the inevitable dismissal or insult.

"Good work," he said instead.

I blinked. "What?"

"I said good work. Are you deaf as well as opportunistic?"

And there it was. He couldn't give a compliment without an insult attached. I bit back the retort on my tongue.

"Thank you," I said stiffly.

"Robert, call Marino and the linen service. Tell them we're renegotiating our contracts or we're taking our business elsewhere." He started to leave, then paused. "Isabella, my office. Now."

My stomach dropped, but I followed him out. His office was neat compared to Robert's—everything in its place, the desk clear except for a laptop and a single framed photo I couldn't see from the doorway.

Alexander shut the door behind us and leaned against his desk, arms crossed. "Where did you learn to analyze financial records like that?"

"I ran a business, remember? I had to know where every dollar was going."

"And yet you still managed to run it into the ground."

"Yes, well, it's hard to maintain profitability when your employees are embezzling." The words came out sharper than I intended.

His eyebrows rose. "Embezzling?"

"My two best friends. Turns out they'd been siphoning money from the business for months. By the time I figured it out, it was too late." I met his gaze. "So yes, I failed. But not because I was incompetent. Because I trusted the wrong people."

Something flickered in his expression—sympathy? Understanding? It was gone too quickly to tell.

"That doesn't explain how my father knew you," he said, changing the subject. "Robert mentioned he had your business plan."

"I don't know how he got it. I never sent it to him. I never had any contact with him."

"People don't just randomly acquire business plans, Isabella."

"I know that!" My frustration boiled over. "Don't you think I'm just as confused as you are? I wake up every day wondering why this is happening, why your father chose me, why any of this is real. And I don't have answers. I don't have anything except your constant accusations and contempt."

Alexander stared at me, his grey eyes intense. For a moment, I thought he might actually believe me. Then his expression hardened.

"My father was a brilliant man who built an empire from nothing. In his final months, he became secretive. He made phone calls he didn't want anyone to hear. He changed his will. And the beneficiary of all this strange behavior was you." He stepped closer. "Maybe you didn't seduce him. Maybe it was blackmail instead. Did you have something on him? Some secret you threatened to expose?"

The accusation hit like a physical blow. "How dare you—"

"Or maybe he really was just a lonely old man who fell for a pretty face and a sob story. Maybe you played the victim so well that he wanted to save you." His voice was cold, clinical. "Either way, you manipulated him."

"I never met him," I said through gritted teeth. "How many times do I have to say it?"

"Until it starts sounding true."

We stood there, facing each other, the tension so thick I could barely breathe. I wanted to scream at him, to make him understand. But what was the point? He'd already decided who I was.

"Is there anything else, Mr. Pearson? Or can I go back to work?"

"One more thing." He pulled out his phone and showed me a calendar. "We have a food critic coming in three days. Samantha Rodriguez from Seattle Metropolitan. She's the one who gave us the bad review last year. This is our chance to change her mind."

"What do you need from me?"

"Stay out of sight. Don't interact with her, don't talk to her, don't even let her see you. The last thing I need is her finding out about my father's... questionable final decision and turning it into a story."

"Fine."

"And Isabella?" He met my eyes. "If she does somehow find out about you and asks questions, you say nothing. Is that clear?"

"Crystal clear. Anything else, or have you finished insulting me for the day?"

His jaw tightened. "Get back to work."

I left his office, my hands shaking with anger and hurt. Every time I thought we might be making progress, he found a new way to remind me that he saw me as nothing but a con artist and a whore.

I made it to the bathroom before the tears came. I locked myself in a stall and let them fall, quiet and bitter. This wasn't sustainable. I couldn't keep doing this—enduring his contempt, swallowing his insults, pretending his words didn't cut me to the bone.

But I didn't have a choice. Not for another eleven months. Not until I'd fulfilled the terms of the will and could walk away from Alexander Pearson and his beautiful, tragic restaurant forever.

I washed my face, fixed my makeup, and went back to work. Because that's what you did when you didn't have any other options. You survived.