Chapter 20
Serena
Two a.m. The office had transformed into a graveyard of spreadsheets and my rapidly dying will to live.
My eyes burned. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a frequency that felt designed to induce madness. I'd been cross-referencing administrative expenses against supplier invoices for six hours straight, and the numbers were starting to blur into abstract art.
This is what you signed up for, I reminded myself, rubbing my temples. Eleanor gave you access. Patricia gave you hell. Now prove you can handle both.
The soft click of a door made me look up.
A man in hotel catering uniform appeared at my cubicle, setting down an insulated container without a word. He didn't make eye contact, didn't wait for acknowledgment—just placed it on the corner of my desk and vanished like smoke.
I stared at the container. No label. No note.
My stomach chose that moment to remind me I hadn't eaten since... when? Breakfast with Chloe felt like a lifetime ago.
Cautiously, I lifted the lid.
The aroma hit me first—earthy, luxurious. Black truffle risotto, still steaming. Beside it, perfectly blanched asparagus spears with what looked like hollandaise. And tucked in the corner, a small insulated carafe.
I unscrewed the top. The scent of Sumatran coffee—dark, bold, precisely prepared—filled my cubicle.
Something in my chest tightened.
This wasn't cafeteria takeout. This was deliberate. The kind of meal that required specific instructions, careful timing, someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Someone who was watching.
I picked up the fork, hands steadier than they should have been. The risotto was perfect—creamy, al dente, the truffle infusing every grain without overwhelming it. The asparagus had that precise tenderness that came from temperature control, not guesswork.
My mother's idea of a late-night meal had been leftover takeout shoved in my direction with a reminder that "beggars can't be choosers." Usually something Elena had rejected—cold General Tso's chicken, congealed lo mein, the cheapest option from whatever restaurant they'd ordered from that night.
"You should be grateful we're feeding you at all," Catherine would say, not looking up from her wine. "Your sister needs her strength. You're young. You can handle leftovers."
I'd eaten those meals standing at the kitchen counter, listening to them laugh in the dining room, wondering what I'd done to deserve being the family's afterthought.
This—this—was the opposite of that. This was someone saying: You matter. Your work matters. Take care of yourself.
Even if that someone was also the man who'd looked through me like glass this morning.
I lifted the coffee, inhaling that familiar scent. Sumatran. The same blend he'd criticized me for getting wrong.
A smile tugged at my lips despite my exhaustion.
"I see you," I murmured to the empty cubicle. "And you see me."
This was surveillance. A test. Maybe both.
But I wasn't stupid enough to waste it.
I ate quickly, efficiently, feeling energy return to my limbs with each bite. Then I pushed the container aside, cracked my knuckles, and dove back into the spreadsheets.
---
Four a.m.
I was almost done. Patricia had buried me in work that should've taken three people a week, and I was going to finish it in one night.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, cross-referencing invoice numbers, flagging discrepancies, building a database that would make this data actually useful instead of just archived.
Then I saw it.
A line item that made my hand freeze mid-type: "Premium Ergonomic Office Furniture - Executive Suite Upgrade: $2,000,000."
Two million dollars. For office chairs.
I frowned, glancing around the floor. Every desk, including the executive ones I could see through the glass walls, had standard Herman Miller Aerons. Nice chairs, sure. But not $10,000-per-chair nice.
I pulled up the corresponding invoice.
"Bespoke Executive Seating Collection - 200 units @ $10,000 each."
Except we didn't have two hundred custom chairs. I'd walked this entire floor. I'd sat in these chairs.
My pulse quickened.
I clicked deeper, pulling up the supplier information. The invoice header looked legitimate—proper letterhead, tax ID, everything.
Then I saw the SKU codes.
My art history degree hadn't prepared me for corporate finance, but it had taught me how to spot a forgery. And these codes...
I opened a new browser tab, typing the first SKU into Google.
The result made my blood run cold.
"Hermès Himalayan Birkin - Crocodile, 30cm, Palladium Hardware - $280,000."
I checked the next code. "Hermès Kelly Cut - Crocodile, Black, 31cm - $125,000."
Another. "Chanel High Jewelry - Diamond & Sapphire Necklace - $850,000."
Every single "office furniture" SKU matched luxury goods. Handbags. Jewelry. Limited edition watches.
Someone was using company funds to buy personal luxuries and disguising them as business expenses.
And they'd been doing it for three years.
My hands were shaking as I pulled up more invoices. The pattern was everywhere—"custom stationery" that matched Cartier pen sets, "executive desk accessories" that were actually Patek Philippe watches, "office décor" that corresponded to Van Cleef & Arpels pieces.
Millions of dollars. Laundered through fake supplier invoices.
I sat back, heart hammering.
This is why Patricia buried me in this work. Not to punish me. To hide it. She thought I'd be too exhausted, too inexperienced to notice the discrepancies.
She underestimated me.
I opened a new spreadsheet and started building my case. Left column: company invoice description. Middle column: actual SKU match. Right column: price comparison.
Two hours later, I had a twenty-page report with highlighted, color-coded evidence of systematic fraud.
I printed it, my hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The first page was a side-by-side comparison: the company's $28,000 "Bespoke Ergonomic Executive Chair" next to the Hermès website listing for a $28,000 Himalayan Birkin, complete with matching SKU codes.
I tucked the report into a red folder—insurance, in case Patricia tried to destroy the digital files—and grabbed my bag.
Dawn was breaking over Manhattan as I finally headed for the elevator.
Tomorrow morning, I was going to blow Patricia Lewis's world apart.