CHAPTER SIX - DAMIEN

I didn’t sit down immediately after Tanya left.

I stood there with one hand braced against my desk, staring at the sheets she’d touched like they were suddenly radioactive.

Not because she touched them.

Because she saw what I’d spent sleepless nights digging through.

She spotted it in seconds.

I exhaled slowly, gathered the papers, and hit the intercom.

“Greyson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send in the Head of Finance.”

A beat. Everyone in this building knew that tone.

“Yes, sir.”

While I waited, I replayed the image of Tanya leaning over my desk, pointing out decimals like breathing. No hesitation. No guesses. She just knew.

And I found women who knew their stuff very sexy.

“No women. Focus, Damien,” I muttered.

A knock. My irritation flared.

“Enter.”

The Head of Finance stepped in—usually composed, but today he looked ready to bolt.

“You asked for me, Mr. Lockewood?”

I slid the stack to him. “Walk me through the logic behind these numbers.”

“These were Hale’s submissions for the quarter, sir. Everything appears—”

“Don’t.”

He froze, then scanned the pages again, flipping through them like the answers might magically appear.

“I… I don’t quite see the issue.”

If a fifty-year-old man with thirty years’ experience couldn’t identify the problem after two minutes, then Tanya catching it in minutes was not an accident.

“Call Hale.”

His eyebrows jumped. “Hale, sir?”

“Yes. Now.”

He nodded and left.

The door closed, and the thought that had been clawing at the edge of my mind finally formed:

Who exactly is Tanya?

The intercom buzzed. “Send them in.”

Hale walked in with the Head of Finance, adjusting his glasses nervously.

“Sir? You wanted to see me?”

I pushed the papers toward him. “These are yours.”

“Yes, sir. Submitted to the accounts office.”

“Read them.”

He tried. Or pretended to. His eyes skimmed, unfocused. He didn’t see it.

“Explain your methodology.”

He hesitated—a fatal mistake.

“Sir, the figures were auto-generated. I simply—”

I raised a hand. He went silent.

“The starting figures are inconsistent,” I said. “Lifted manually. Twice.”

His face drained.

Not surprise.

Not confusion.

Fear.

“I—I didn’t—maybe someone from the junior—”

“You signed it.”

“Mr. Lockewood, please—if you let me recheck—”

“I’m not interested in excuses.”

“Sir, I have a family—”

“And you should’ve considered them before committing fraud.”

I tapped the security button.

Two guards appeared instantly.

“Hale,” I said quietly, “you’re terminated. Effective immediately.”

“Sir, please—I can fix this—”

“You had months to fix it. You chose to hide it.”

He shook, desperate, but it was done.

“And Hale,” I added as the guards took his arms, “everyone on this floor needs to understand something.”

He stilled.

“I don’t tolerate fraud. Or stupidity. Not in my company.”

The guards led him out—no theatrics, just consequence.

“Get lost.”

The Head of Finance practically ran after him.

Silence followed.

But the calm didn’t come.

Tanya’s voice echoed:

“It took a cleaner to figure it out.”

I rubbed my jaw, annoyed at how that sentence twisted in my chest. And I paid thousands for security.

I pressed the intercom.

“Greyson.”

She appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”

“Fire whoever was supposed to audit the records. Effective immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And pull Tanya Reed’s file.”

She frowned. “Is there anything in particular—”

“No.”

She nodded and left.

I wasn’t sure what I expected from Tanya’s file.

Some explanation for how she walked into my office, glanced at a report, and dismantled Hale’s manipulation like it was nothing.

My computer pinged. Her profile opened.

Family: deceased.

Education: Degree in Financial Accounting.

Work history: scattered.

Skills: none listed.

References: minimal.

Achievement: Top 5 in statewide mathematics competition (senior level).

Nothing dramatic.

But enough to explain why a cleaner could outperform my finance team with a glance.

My phone buzzed. Father.

I debated ignoring it. Answered anyway.

“What.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said. “Firing a senior manager without warning?”

“He cooked the books.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“I do.”

“You can’t run a company on instinct alone.”

“I don’t. I run it on precision. Not manipulation.”

A pause.

“Make sure you have evidence to avoid lawsuits.”

He hung up.

No goodbye. Typical.

I pushed Tanya’s file aside and looked at the reports on my desk, the sticky note she left grouping the pages, her handwriting glaring at me.

Her tired eyes flashed in my mind. She looked like she hadn’t slept.

I knew that look.

But why did I care?

Why did it bother me?

I stood abruptly. Coffee. I needed coffee.

When I got back to Lockewood Heights, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.

People weren’t gossiping. They knew better.

But fear had settled into the walls.

A woman from PR straightened her blazer insanely fast.

Two managers who’d been arguing suddenly lowered their voices.

Someone dropped a pen, and the silence afterward was loud.

Even Greyson straightened further when she saw me.

“I’ve postponed your nonessential meetings,” she said. “I assumed today wasn’t the day.”

Accurate. I nodded.

I entered my office. Everything was where I left it—the reports, the sticky note, her handwriting staring at me like it owned the place.

The coffee helped. Barely.

Because the problem wasn’t the fraud.

Not Hale.

Not the Finance team.

The problem was a cleaning girl who saw something within minutes that I’d spent days unraveling.

A girl who shouldn’t have been in my head.

Or under my skin.

But she was.

Tanya Reed was a problem.

A sharp one.

A stubborn one.

And now… a distraction.

A fast-growing one.

And I hated distractions.