Chapter 4 THE FIRST ENCOUNTER
POV: Selena
My screen flashed red, and my stomach dropped.
I leaned closer to the monitor, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I reread the numbers. They were wrong. Not slightly off. Wrong in a way that meant someone had either rushed the work or assumed no one would notice.
It was late. Too late for an intern to still be here. The office had emptied an hour ago, the lights dimmed automatically, and the silence felt heavier without voices to soften it. I told myself to save the file and leave, but the error refused to let me go.
This grant funded education programs in low-income districts. Millions of dollars. If the figures stayed as they were, the proposal would collapse under scrutiny.
I pulled up the original data, then the revised report. My pulse quickened as the pattern became clear. Someone had adjusted the totals without fixing the base numbers. On paper, it looked polished. Under examination, it would fall apart.
I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the time. Almost nine. My mother would tell me to go home, to rest, to remember I was just an intern. But I could not ignore what I was seeing.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
I froze.
No one was supposed to be here. I shut down the file halfway, then stopped myself. If I panicked now, I would look guilty. I straightened in my chair just as voices reached me.
Adrian’s voice was unmistakable.
“I already told them the numbers were solid,” he said, sharp and tired. “No, I do not care how it looks. I care whether it holds.”
He walked past my desk without noticing me, phone pressed to his ear, jacket slung over his arm. He looked different at this hour. Less composed. His tie was loosened, his expression strained, like the weight of the evening had followed him inside.
I watched him disappear into his office, the door closing with more force than necessary.
I sat there, heart racing, staring at the screen. I could pretend I had not seen the error. I could send a note to Mrs. Patterson in the morning. That was the safe choice.
But I had overheard that call. The frustration in his voice was real. The consequences would land on the programs, not on the people arguing over them.
I saved the file.
My legs felt unsteady as I stood. I crossed the corridor slowly, every step louder than it should have been. When I reached his door, I hesitated. This was not my place. I was an intern. Invisible, remember.
I knocked anyway.
“Mr. De Luca?” My voice sounded smaller than I wanted. “I think I know what’s wrong.”
Silence.
Then, “Come in.”
I pushed the door open.
He was standing by his desk, phone in hand, staring at a document with clear irritation. He looked up, ready to dismiss whoever had interrupted him, and stopped.
For a moment, he just looked at me.
Not the intern. Not the inconvenience. Me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was finishing a report,” I said, then forced myself to continue. “I noticed an inconsistency in the Harper Grant application.”
His brow furrowed. “That file was finalized.”
“Yes,” I said carefully. “But the revised totals do not match the source data. Someone adjusted the summary without recalculating the individual allocations.”
He stared at me, then gestured sharply to the chair across from him. “Show me.”
I moved quickly, pulling the file up on his screen. My fingers steadied as I explained, pointing out where the math broke down and how the mistake likely happened. He leaned closer, scanning every line, his earlier frustration shifting into focused attention.
“You’re saying the projected outcomes are inflated,” he said.
“They are inconsistent,” I replied. “If audited, the entire grant could be flagged.”
He exhaled slowly. “That explains the call.”
I continued, momentum carrying me forward now. “If you adjust the regional distribution first and rebuild the totals from there, the numbers align. It lowers the headline figure slightly, but it becomes defensible.”
He said nothing for a long moment. Then he did exactly what I suggested.
The numbers settled into place.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. “This would have exploded at review.”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
He turned to me fully then, studying my face like he was seeing me for the first time. Not assessing. Not dismissing. Actually looking.
“Who taught you to catch things like this?” he asked.
“My mother,” I said before I could stop myself. “She always said mistakes hide where people assume no one will look.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not softness. Recognition.
“Who are you?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer.
His phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, irritation returning. “Senator.”
He answered, pacing slightly as he listened. His posture changed with every word. Tension tightened his shoulders, his jaw setting.
“Yes,” he said. “I see. No, that is not acceptable.”
He stopped pacing and looked at me again, eyes sharper now.
“We have a problem,” he said into the phone. “A big one.”
He ended the call and turned back to me. “You should not have been able to fix that.”
“I just followed the data,” I said.
“That is exactly the issue,” he replied. “Most people do not.”
He paused, then added, “You should go home.”
I nodded, suddenly aware of how late it was, how quiet the building had become. I gathered my things quickly, heart still pounding.
As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
“Selena.”
I turned.
“Tomorrow,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “you report directly to Mrs. Patterson. Anything you notice, you flag. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
I left his office and walked down the corridor, my thoughts racing. The night air outside felt colder than before, the city quieter.
I had come here to be invisible.
Instead, I had stepped into something I did not yet understand. Something that had just started to move.
And I had a feeling it would not stop now that it knew my name.