Chapter 3 Chapter 3

POV: Sloane

The check arrived on a silver tray.

One hundred and forty dollars for just two kale salads and a bottle of sparkling water.

I sighed. Somewhere along the line, these restaurants realized they could charge us for the aesthetic of starving, and we were all just letting them get away with it.

Vanessa, the reality-TV-star-turned-author whose memoir I was currently ghostwriting, didn't even glance at the leather folio. She was too busy reapplying her lip gloss in the reflection of her phone camera.

I reached across the table and slipped my debit card inside.

"I've got this one," I said.

I didn't "got" anything.

It was a stupid, prideful move because I couldn't really afford a hundred-dollar lunch. But after spending the last two hours listening to Vanessa complain about how hard it was to find good hired help, I needed to remind myself that I was an independent contractor, not her assistant.

Three minutes later, the waitress returned. She placed the folio down softly.

"I'm sorry, miss." Her voice was a pitying whisper. "Your card declined."

Vanessa's eyes flicked up from her phone screen, landing on me with a mixture of amusement and deep, patronizing pity.

The flush of humiliation that climbed my neck was hot and fast.

I grabbed my phone. My smile was tight. Painfully tight. "Just a bank glitch. One second."

I stepped out onto the busy sidewalk, the afternoon sun hitting my face. I opened my banking app, fully expecting to see a low balance. Maybe an unexpected bill had cleared.

The screen loaded.

My balance didn't show zero. It didn't show anything.

A red banner stretched across the top of the screen: ACCOUNT FROZEN. SUSPECTED FRAUD.

My stomach dropped so low it might as well have hit the concrete floor beneath my feet.

The noise of the city traffic faded into a muffled hum. My hands started to shake.

Frozen.

It was a word that dragged me straight back to my childhood. Eviction notices taped to the apartment door. Electricity shutting off in the middle of winter. The hollow ache of having absolutely nothing.

I dialed the customer service number on the back of the card. I paced the concrete, pressing zero over and over until the automated voice finally gave way to a human.

"My account is frozen," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I didn't report any fraud. Please, I need access to my funds immediately."

Keys clacked on the other end of the line. "Let me check on that for you, Ms. Caldwell."

A long, agonizing pause.

"Ah. I see the flag," the representative said. Her tone shifted, becoming guarded. "The freeze was initiated by the issuing institution of a recently deposited check. A fifty-thousand-dollar transaction. The Blackwood Estate reported the funds as stolen."

I stopped walking.

A guy in sweat-drenched running clothes slammed hard into my shoulder. "Watch it, crazy," he hissed, jogging past me into the crosswalk.

The impact barely registered.

"Stolen?"

"Yes, ma'am. Until the fraud investigation concludes, federal regulations require us to lock all your associated accounts."

"But I handed him the check," I whispered. "He was standing right there."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. There's nothing we can do. You'll have to take that up with the Estate."

The line clicked dead.

I stood on the sidewalk, staring at my dark screen.

I had spent the whole night agonizing over that check. The absolute worst-case scenario in my head was that Julian Blackwood would simply rip the paper in half and throw it in the trash.

I never imagined he would actually use my own money to nuke my financial existence.

My fists tightened to balls. A blinding spike of fury hit my chest, burning away the fear until there was nothing left but red-hot rage.

The Blackwood Empire headquarters was a terrifying structure of black glass and steel. It looked less like an office building and more like a fortress.

The lobby was a large expanse of marble. A row of digital turnstiles separated the entrance from the elevator banks, guarded by three men in dark suits with earpieces.

I marched straight up to the center desk.

"Julian Blackwood," I said. "Where is he?"

The guard didn't even blink. He looked at my worn blazer, my messy hair, and the canvas tote bag hanging off my shoulder.

"Do you have an appointment, miss?"

"No."

He offered a condescending smirk. "Then I suggest you send an email to corporate like everyone else. Have a good day."

I wanted to scream, but arguing with a brick wall wouldn't get me to Julian. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth and forced a curt nod.

"Right," I muttered. "I'll do that."

The guard looked away, satisfied he had won.

I stepped back, blending into the rush of people moving through the lobby. But I didn't leave.

I spent a lifetime analyzing people. Finding their flaws, their habits, the tiny details they tried to hide. I scanned the lobby, looking for a crack in the armor.

I found it by the service entrance.

A frantic catering manager was berating a group of staff in crisp white button-downs and black pants. They were loading silver carts with pastries and carafes of coffee.

"The board meeting needed this ten minutes ago! Move!"

I looked down at my outfit. I was wearing a white button-down under my blazer.

To hell with it.

I slipped the blazer off and shoved it deep into my tote bag. I walked toward the chaos, slipping my phone to my ear to look busy. As the catering staff pushed the carts toward the VIP freight elevator, I grabbed a spare tray of San Pellegrino bottles from a nearby counter.

I kept my head down, burying myself in the middle of the group as they moved.

The security guard at the service turnstile swiped his master key, too busy checking his watch to count the faces walking past him.

I stepped into the glass elevator just as the doors slid shut.

The catering manager wiped sweat from his forehead and pointed a shaking finger at us. "Listen up. Eyes at the floor. Pour from the right. If Mr. Blackwood is speaking, you do not exist. Am I clear?"

A chorus of nervous nods rippled through the elevator.

The digital display ticked up to the top floor.

Sixty-two.

Sixty-three.

The doors opened to a sprawling floor of grey carpet and mahogany walls. At the end of the hall, two doors stood slightly ajar.

I followed the carts inside.

The boardroom was massive. Eight older men in bespoke suits sat around a long glass table. At the far end, a sweaty executive was clicking through a slideshow of projections.

And then I saw him.

Seated on the very edge of the glass table, Julian's long legs stretched out in front of him. He looked effortlessly in control.

The executive clicked to the next slide. "As you can see, our Q4 projections anticipate a mild dip in European logistics, but overall—"

"That's a fascinating projection, Greg," Julian interrupted.

His voice was incredibly charming. Soft. Reasonable. Totally alien from the voice I heard yesterday.

"I suppose if we all close our eyes and pretend the seven million in missing revenue from the Berlin branch doesn't exist, it almost makes sense."

Greg swallowed hard, his face flushing crimson. The rest of the board looked at the files in front of them in silence.

I stepped out from behind the dessert cart. If I didn't do something right now, the catering manager was going to usher me right back out the door. And I would have lost my chance.

I tilted my metal tray at just the right angle and let one bottle roll straight off the edge. It shattered against a chair leg.

The entire room jumped.

The catering manager turned purple. He rushed toward me, hissing under his breath, "What are you doing? Get out, get out-"

"Wait."

The manager froze.

Julian was looking right at me.

Then, he smiled.

It was warm. It was the smile Julian used on the covers of philanthropy magazines.

"Welcome, Sloane," he said, his voice dripping with gentle surprise. He turned to the executives. "Gentlemen, I apologize. Could we take a brief recess? Ten minutes."

An older executive with silver hair slammed his tablet down. "Julian, we are in the middle of the restructuring. We don't have time for recesses today."

Julian turned back to the man.

The golden-boy smile stayed perfectly pinned to his mouth. But the light behind his eyes went pitch black.

"Richard." His voice dropped. It was polite, but laced with poison. "I value your input. Almost as much as I value the oversight committee ignoring those offshore transfers you made last quarter."

The room temperature dropped ten degrees.

"So when I ask for the room," Julian murmured, "I highly recommend you find the hallway."

The man he called Richard went pale. He grabbed his tablet, pushed his chair back, and practically ran for the door. The other executives scrambled to follow, keeping their heads down.

I stood frozen, my knuckles white around the metal tray.

The tray rattled faintly before I willed my hands still.

Watching him was terrifying. And twisted.

And oddly magnetic.

The doors clicked shut behind the last executive.

Julian dragged a hand down his jaw, taking the smile on his face with it.

He looked back up at me.

It was the look of a man who was finally, gloriously done playing nice.