Chapter 21
Serena
8:47 a.m.
I walked into Patricia's office with the completed cross-reference database on a flash drive and the red folder tucked under my arm.
She barely looked up from her computer. "You're late."
"I'm early," I corrected, setting the flash drive on her desk. "The database is complete. All three years, cross-referenced and flagged for discrepancies."
Her eyes flicked to the drive, then back to her screen. "Hmm. Not bad. For someone who needed hand-holding on coffee orders."
I didn't rise to the bait. "I also included notes on potential areas for cost optimization."
"How thoughtful." Her tone dripped sarcasm. "Though I'm not sure how many all-nighters you'll be able to pull. This was just your first assignment."
She wanted me to flinch. To show exhaustion or frustration.
Instead, I smiled. "Actually, I found it quite energizing. Especially when I found... inconsistencies."
"Inconsistencies?" Patricia's typing slowed.
I pulled out the red folder, setting it carefully on her desk. "You asked me to cross-reference expenses against supplier invoices. I did. And I noticed something interesting about the SKU codes."
Her fingers froze over the keyboard.
I opened the folder, turning it so she could see the first page—the side-by-side comparison of the "office chair" and the Hermès Birkin.
The color drained from her face. Then flooded back, her complexion going from pale to mottled red in seconds.
"What the hell is this?"
"A discrepancy," I said calmly. "The company's been billed two million dollars for premium office furniture over three years. But the SKU codes don't match any furniture supplier. They match luxury retail—Hermès, Chanel, Cartier. I've documented every instance."
Patricia's hand shot out, sweeping the folder off her desk. Papers scattered across the floor like damning confetti.
"You arrogant little bitch." She was on her feet now, leaning over her desk, finger jabbing toward my face. "Do you have any idea what you're doing? You're a glorified temp! A charity case whose bankrupt family begged their way into this building! And you think you can waltz in here and accuse senior management of—"
"I'm not accusing anyone," I interrupted, my voice steady. "I'm reporting a data anomaly. That's what you hired me to do, isn't it? Find and flag irregularities?"
Patricia's laugh was sharp, humorless. "Find irregularities in procurement processes, Vance. Supplier delivery times. Contract renewal dates. Not—" She gestured violently at the folder. "Not whatever witch hunt you think you've uncovered."
"The SKU codes don't match—"
"I don't care what the SKU codes say!" She slammed both hands on her desk. "Some things aren't meant to be questioned by junior analysts. Some things aren't meant to be handled by people at your level. This company—like any major corporation—has its own internal processes. Things that look irregular to a naive little girl fresh out of college might be perfectly standard operating procedure for people who actually understand how business works."
Translation: shut up and stay in your lane.
"You're saying systematic fraud is standard operating procedure?" I kept my tone neutral, curious even.
Her jaw clenched. "I'm saying you don't know what you're looking at. And if you're smart—which I'm beginning to doubt—you'll drop this right now. This department you're so eager to expose?" Her voice lowered, took on a warning edge. "You can't afford to make enemies there."
My pulse quickened. This department. Not these people. A specific department.
"Which department would that be?"
Patricia's eyes narrowed. "Get out of my office."
"I just want to understand—"
"Get out!" She was practically vibrating with fury. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll forget you ever saw those files."
I stared at her, my mind racing. She was terrified. Not angry that I'd found the discrepancies—terrified of who I'd found them about.
"Since you can't handle this," I said quietly, "I don't mind letting your superior make that call."
I crouched down, gathering the scattered papers.
"Don't you dare—"
I was already straightening, folder in hand. "Thank you for the professional development opportunity, Patricia. I've learned so much about internal processes."
"Vance!" Her voice cracked like a whip.
But I was already moving.
I pushed through her office door, my heart hammering, fingers clutching the red folder like a lifeline. The Strategic Acquisitions floor stretched ahead of me—a maze of glass-walled offices and curious stares. Lance's office sat at the far end of the building, behind executive security and two checkpoints.
It might as well have been a mile away.
I walked faster, my heels clicking against polished marble. Behind me, I could hear Patricia's door slam open.
"Serena!" Her voice carried across the floor. "You are making a very serious mistake!"
I didn't look back.
Almost there. Just get to Lance's office. Get to someone who can actually—
"Well, well, well."
The voice stopped me cold.
Wesley stepped out from behind a support column, blocking my path with that lazy, entitled stance he'd perfected over years of never being told no.
He looked me up and down slowly, deliberately. "I heard you'd wormed your way into our company. Didn't believe it at first. Figured you'd be too ashamed to show your face after your little... meltdown at The Sovereign."
My fingers tightened on the folder. "Get out of my way."
"But here you are." He spread his arms, grinning. "What are you, exactly? A janitor? Coffee girl? Oh wait—" He snapped his fingers. "You already fucked up the coffee thing, didn't you? Word travels fast in this building."
"I said move."
"Or what?" He stepped closer, invading my space. "You'll tell my uncle? Oh, honey. Lance doesn't give a shit about his employees. Especially not charity hires who—" His gaze dropped to the folder. "Wait. What's that?"
"None of your business."
His hand shot out, snatching the folder before I could react.
"Wesley, give that back—"
"What do we have here?" He flipped it open, eyes scanning the first page. Then he laughed. Actually laughed. "Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. You made a whole report?" His eyes gleamed with malicious delight as he flipped through the pages. "With charts and everything. How professional."
My stomach dropped. "That's company property—"
"Wait, wait, wait." He stopped on the comparison page, his grin widening. "Are you seriously trying to report my uncle for embezzlement?"
The words hit me like ice water.
Uncle.
"Your... what?"
"My uncle Felix." Wesley's smile was pure venom now. "Felix Lawson? Chief Operating Officer? Head of Global Procurement?" He tapped the folder against his palm. "The man you're accusing of stealing millions through fake supplier invoices?"