Chapter 32
Lena's POV
I sat at my desk, reconstructing the timeline for the Whitmore case.
According to my records, I had finished the final version the day before taking on the Reynolds Industries project—exactly two days before Nora walked through our doors. Chronologically, she had the perfect alibi.
But did she really?
I stared at the document revision history on my screen. The last modification was mine: equity distribution changed from 45% to 55%. I remembered it clearly. I'd been meticulous, double-checking every clause before saving. Yet the version submitted to the client read 45%.
Someone tampered with the file before submission.
The question was: who had access? Rachel? Brett? Someone else?
I pulled up the server logs, scanning the timestamps. My final save: 6:47 PM. File submission to client portal: 7:15 PM.
Twenty-eight minutes.
My fingers stilled on the keyboard.
Twenty-eight minutes for someone to replace the file.
My phone buzzed. A text from Richard: "3 PM today. Whitmore headquarters. Apologize in person and negotiate a resolution."
I replied: "Understood."
---
The receptionist at Whitmore Manufacturing informed me the VP had changed.
"Mr. Wells retired last month. It's Daniel Whitmore now—the president's only son. He just returned from managing projects in Europe."
Daniel Whitmore.
The name stirred up a memory I'd buried. Business school president during our college years—polite, intelligent, always with that easy smile. We'd worked on group projects together, stayed late in the library analyzing case studies. He'd asked me to dance at the graduation ball. I'd declined, citing an early flight the next morning.
The truth was simpler: I didn't dance. Not then.
Then he went to Europe. I stayed in Silverton. I'd assumed I'd never see him again.
The elevator doors opened, and a man in a charcoal suit stepped out. Tall, broad-shouldered, brown hair styled with precision. His face was more angular than I remembered, shaped by years abroad, but those hazel eyes remained warm.
"Lena." He smiled, extending his hand. "It's been a while."
His handshake was firm. Professional.
"Daniel," I said. "Congratulations on the promotion."
"Thanks. Though 'promotion' makes it sound earned." His mouth quirked. "More like inevitable succession."
---
Daniel's office was on the eighteenth floor, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the industrial district. He poured coffee from a French press—real coffee, not the instant powder most offices kept—and sat across from his desk.
"Business first." His tone shifted, losing its warmth. "About the merger agreement error—I reviewed it personally. The equity distribution clause is problematic."
"I apologize." My voice stayed level. "It was my oversight. I'll submit the corrected version within twenty-four hours."
"Mm." He nodded, fingers drumming once against his desk. Then he stopped, studying me. "Though, Lena, I know your work style. This kind of careless mistake doesn't seem like you."
I met his gaze.
"Perhaps something went wrong during file transfer," I said carefully. "I'll investigate thoroughly."
"Good." He leaned back, and the professional mask slipped away. "Since you're handling it personally, I trust you'll resolve it. As for the delays and associated losses..." He paused, mouth pulling into a familiar grin, "Buy me dinner, and we'll call it even."
I froze.
"Daniel—"
"Don't refuse." He raised a hand. "It's rare we get to see each other. Can't spend the entire reunion talking shop. Besides, Rossi's is still around. You remember that place, right?"
Rossi's. Where our study group met every Thursday night, arguing over case studies until they kicked us out.
I wanted to decline—I'd always kept business and personal matters separate. But Daniel's tone was light, casual. Refusing would seem unnecessarily formal. And he had, after all, given me a graceful out on the contract error.
"All right," I said. "Seven tonight."
His smile widened. "I'll see you there."
---
I arrived at Rossi's at seven sharp. The restaurant hadn't changed—warm yellow lighting, exposed brick walls, red-checkered tablecloths. The air carried the mingled scents of garlic, tomato sauce, and fresh-baked bread.
Daniel was already waiting at a corner table by the window. He stood when he saw me, pulling out my chair.
"Still punctual as ever," he said.
"Professional habit."
"Some things never change." He sat across from me, gesturing to the menu. "Though I hope your taste in food has evolved. You used to order the same thing every time."
"Margherita pizza," I said.
"With extra basil." He grinned. "See? Predictable."
"Consistent," I corrected.
The server approached. Daniel ordered lamb chops and a bottle of Chianti; I chose seafood linguine.
After the server left, he poured wine into both glasses and raised his. "To reunions."
I clinked mine against his. The wine was full-bodied, carrying notes of cherry and oak.
"How was Europe?" I asked.
"Exhausting." He swirled his wine, watching the legs form on the glass. "But rewarding. My father threw me into expansion projects—Germany, then France. Sink or swim approach."
"And you swam."
"Barely." He smiled, but something shadowed his eyes. "There were moments I wanted to quit. Call him up and say I wasn't cut out for this."
"But you didn't."
"No." He took a drink. "Whitmore men don't quit. We endure."
The words hung between us.
"What about you?" He set down his glass. "I heard you're doing well at Madison. Partner track, right?"
"Still working toward it."
"You'll make it." His tone was certain. "You've always been the most driven person I know."
I didn't respond. The server returned with our meals—his lamb perfectly seared, my pasta steaming with garlic and white wine.
"Remember that M&A simulation project senior year?" Daniel cut into his lamb. "The professor said your due diligence report was the most rigorous student work he'd ever seen."
"You built the entire financial model," I said. "Without your projections, I had no foundation."
"We worked well together." He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "We always did."
Something in his tone made me look up.
His gaze held mine—steady, questioning.
A voice cut through from nearby: "Well, well. Lena. What a coincidence."
I turned to see Colin Summers standing a few feet away, whiskey in hand, his signature smirk plastered across his face. Rowan's childhood friend—Silverton's notorious playboy.
"Colin." I nodded.
His gaze swept over Daniel with obvious appraisal, then returned to me, eyes glinting with barely contained amusement.
"Date night?" He grinned wider. "Don't let me interrupt. Carry on."
He raised his glass in a mock salute, then turned away. But not before I caught him reaching for his phone.
I watched his retreating back, unease settling cold in my stomach.
He's definitely telling Rowan.