Chapter 10

POV: Declan

"The third frame is where the leak would have happened," Declan said, pausing the video playback on the wall monitor.

Preston leaned forward, his focus fixed on the grainy edges of the frozen shot. "The security detail didn't flag the exchange, sir. They were monitoring the perimeter near the terrace doors."

"The detail looks for weapons, Preston. They don't look for blue tabs on internal corporate files." Declan restarted the footage, watching the silent, fluid movement of the Meridian ballroom. "Sloane did."

On the digital panel, the recording showed Sloane moving half a step to her left. Her charcoal silk dress caught the low light of the chandeliers as she blocked Marcus Webb’s view of the junior executive's folder. Her hand didn't touch the paper. She simply redirected the conversation with a slight turn of her head until the clerk realized his error and swapped the blue-tabbed binder for a silver one.

"She saved us forty-eight hours of market stabilization calls, sir," Preston noted.

"That’s the problem," Declan said, shutting off the screen with a flick of his thumb. "She operated without clearance. Send her up."

"She’s already in the gallery, sir. She was waiting for the morning briefing."

"Bring her in."

Sloane entered the office three minutes later. She wasn't wearing the pearls from the vault. Her hair was pinned low, a few dark strands escaping near her collar, and she carried a single cream-colored folder against her ribs. She didn't look at the floor-to-ceiling glass that looked down over the financial district.

"You're tracking the digital footprint from the gala," Sloane said, stopping three feet from his desk.

Declan didn't offer her a chair. "The Vance stock opened up two points this morning. The media liked the dress."

"The media liked seeing you next to someone who didn't look like they were about to run for the exit," she said.

"You handled Marcus Webb," Declan said. "That wasn't in the notes Preston gave you."

"The notes Preston gave me were three weeks old," Sloane said, her voice dropping into that flat, rhythmic tone she used when counting columns. "They didn't include the fact that his firm just liquidated its transit holdings in Chicago. If I had talked about infrastructure, he would have known we were hunting for his board seats."

Declan walked around the perimeter of his desk, his sleeves rolled twice to his forearms. "You read the corporate filings from ninety-eight, Sloane. I know what you took from the library drawer."

Sloane didn't flinch. "I took what was necessary to keep your table four from turning into a shouting match. The Arringtons haven't spoken since the probate filing on their son’s trust. If you wanted a dummy on your arm, you should have left Bridget in the car."

"Bridget follows instructions," Declan said.

"Bridget follows crowds," Sloane corrected him, her eyes steady as he stopped a foot away from her. "There is a difference."

"You switched the executive’s file before Webb saw the acquisition margins," Declan said, his tone flattening. "That was a legal boundary, Sloane. You aren't general counsel for Shaw Tower."

"I was the only person looking at his hands," she said. "Your general counsel was busy drinking scotch with Arthur Vale's nephew."

"You don't cross the line into my operations without telling me first."

"The line was moving, Declan. If Webb had seen those numbers, the merger wouldn't be delayed. It would be dead."

Declan looked down at her face, studying the slight shadow under her eyes. She wasn't wearing makeup today. She looked smaller in the white office light, but her chin didn't drop. "You think you’re indispensable now."

"I think I’m efficient," Sloane said, stepping forward to place the cream folder on his desk. "The charity luncheon on Thursday has a six-figure deficit in the regional medical fund. Bridget told the committee you would match the Vance donation."

Declan frowned, not touching the folder. "I didn't authorize a match."

"I know," Sloane said. "If you match it, you trigger the disclosure clause for the secondary foundation. I altered the language on page six to route the funds through the transport annuity instead. It stays off the books until the merger closes."

Declan looked at the folder, then back at her. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because Jamie needs his third treatment on Monday," she said, her voice completely bare of emotion. "And your accounting department won't sign the clearance voucher until you initial the weekly ledger."

"You're trading compliance work for your brother's life," Declan said.

"I’m trading competence," Sloane said, turning toward the door. "Let me know when the Thursday script is ready."

"Sloane."

She stopped with her hand on the silver handle, her back to him. "Yes?"

"The wire transfer from the Boston account," Declan said, his voice level and cold in the quiet room. "The one dated four days before our contract."

Sloane’s shoulders went rigid. She didn't turn around immediately. When she did, her face was completely white, her fingers gripping the edge of the door frame. "Bridget gave it to you."

"Bridget left it on my blotter before the breakfast service," Declan said. He reached into his vest pocket, pulling out the folded white receipt. "Twenty-three thousand dollars. Drawn from the Madden corporate reserve while your father’s estate was under an active injunction."

Sloane took a slow breath, her chest moving under her blouse. "I didn't use it for myself."

"The law doesn't care about the destination of the funds, Sloane. It cares about the signature on the authorization." Declan set the paper flat on the dark wood of his desk. "That’s grand larceny. If the state board gets a copy of this, the merger is audited, and your brother loses his placement at the clinic within forty-eight hours."

Sloane stepped back into the room, her voice shaking for the first time since she had entered the tower. "I had to pay the deposit. They were going to give his bed to a family from Connecticut."

"You stole from an estate that was already under my corporate lien," Declan said.

"I took what belonged to my family," she whispered.

"It belongs to the creditors," Declan said, leaning against his desk. "It belongs to me."

Sloane looked at the paper, then at him. "Are you going to call the auditors?"

"That depends on Thursday," Declan said. "You will attend the luncheon. You will say what I write for you. And you will not touch another file in this office without my signature on the request."

Sloane stared at him, her eyes turning dark, the compliance mask completely gone. "You're disgusting."

"I’m thorough," Declan said, picking up his tablet again. "Go back to your room, Sloane."

She left without another word, the heavy door clicking shut behind her with a sound like a trap snapping.

Declan didn't look up from his screen for ten minutes. The numbers on the page didn't shift, but the silence in the office felt heavier than it had before she entered. He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of the wire receipt, sliding it back into his drawer.

The side door to the executive suite clicked open. Preston returned, his face unusually pale, his phone held tightly in his hand.

"Sir," Preston said, looking toward the main corridor before closing the door. "We have a problem with Bridget’s medical log from the night of the investor dinner."

Declan didn't look up. "The migraine was verified by the house physician."

"The house physician didn't sign the log, sir," Preston said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I just checked the gate records for the lower garage. Bridget wasn't in her room that night. Her car cleared the perimeter at midnight, and she didn't return until four in the morning."

Declan set the tablet flat on the desk. "Where did she go?"

"The toll records trace the transponder to the private wing of St. Jude's," Preston said, stepping closer. "The clinic where Jamie Madden is being held. Sir, Bridget wasn't checking on her brother. She was meeting with Andrew Pierce's legal representative in the visitor’s lounge."