Fanfiction White Collar Novels & Stories

The story was so sensitive it had already become a corporate crime for anyone in their organization to publish the details, which only made Margo's scoop more precious. ​"What is it?" Whitney asked impatiently, annoyed she had to wear a coffee stained shirt for the rest of the day. "Oh you are going to like this, Ethan Blackwood found himself a new missus! Nobody knows who she is, but I heard she's working right at his firm. How wild is that?" Margo finished, practically bouncing with the secret.

"It's real." I sat back in my chair, the weight of it settling into my chest. Five years of believing one woman's jealousy had destroyed me, and the truth was so much larger, so much colder. A financial cover-up. A company's worth of fraud, buried under my name because I was the most convenient person to bury it under. "Who sent it?" Dara said. "I don't know." "You need to find out before you use it. If someone inside Whitman Corp is feeding you information, they have a reason, and that reason might not be the same as yours."

"Let’s talk about something fun. Like how the press is having the time of their lives with you right now. You’ve seen the headlines, right?" I hesitated, tapping my spoon against my cup. "I make it a point to not torture myself willingly." Eleanor rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone. "Well, lucky for you, I enjoy a little torture." She slid her phone across the table, and the second I read the headline, my stomach twisted. "From Widow to Wife: Did Helena Whitmore Trade Grief for a Payday?" The blood drained from my face. Eleanor leaned in, her voice low. "Helena, they’re like vultures. Waiting for a crack or a scandal anything to rip you apart."

Meanwhile, in a light office on the other side of town, Jenny White was pretend-writing a report while ranting to Zina over instant messaging and chewing over a cookie with unnecessary aggression. Light streamed in from the row of windows behind the Zina Bank & Partners office, making yellow stripes on the messy desk of Jenny White. Her fingers drummed a staccato on the keys, but the screen contained only a half-written memo and a screaming cursor that complained one word: Distracted.

"Don't tell me that you expected no one to have noticed what you did and not enlighten people." "What...what are you talking about?" "The reason why you were able to secure a job in Kurenia hospital in the first place is because you slept with one of the minor shareholders, Dylan White. Isn't that why his wife came to har*ss you the other day?"

"I will show up at 9:00 AM sharp. I will wear my high-necked dresses and my patent stilettos. I will sit behind my marble desk, and I will type standard administrative correspondence. I won't touch the routing codes. I won't update the encryption nodes. I will watch Lily White try to balance a maritime ledger with her cleavage, and I will watch Collins drown in his own paperwork while his hands shake too hard to sign the checks." Carolina walked up behind me, leaning her back against the railing, looking up at me with absolute reverence. "And Christopher?" "Christopher will spend every single night staring at the closed oak doors of his office, wondering when the blade is going to drop," I w

****Years later**** I walked out of the elevator on the 32nd floor, my heels clicking against the polished tiled floor. The building smelled of money, expensive cologne, fresh coffee, and power. It’s the Sinclair Tower, the tallest and most ruthless corporate headquarters in the city. My black pencil skirt hugged my hips a little too tightly, and the white blouse I wore felt too thin. I could still feel the bruises Marcus left on my thighs from last night. “Miss Bennett?” A sharp voice called out.

This twist came in the form of a whistleblower—a courageous individual who had gathered irrefutable evidence of a widespread conspiracy within our industry. One fateful afternoon, I received an anonymous email containing a cryptic message and a file attachment. Curiosity piqued, I cautiously opened the attachment, revealing a treasure trove of documents—a meticulously compiled collection of internal memos, financial records, and correspondence between high-ranking individuals in our industry.

Nope. Inside lay a heap of boring, legitimate JFI business. Though I did pause long enough to make sure it was actually authentic and not embezzlement, money laundering, racketeering, or any other white-collar crime, I shut the drawer a minute later, re-locked it, and started on the next. At the third drawer, I began to lose a little hope, which ratcheted up the desperation a notch. After learning Fin Tin was alive, everything seemed to jolt into hyper speed. I wanted the truth now. “Dammit. Where the hell is it?”

He goes straight to the point, “You’re taking after your dear old dad and have a live one here.” “You looked over the figures I sent?” I can’t keep the happy thrill from my voice. “Yes…” he goes on to give me the details on how my thief is working her scam. She’s good. When I interviewed her boss, I had him give me a rundown on all his employees. Her glowing reference put her at the top of my list. She’s the employee who never forgets a birthday and buys the boss ugly sweaters for Christmas. Everyone loves her. Back in my patrol days, I took a general training about white collar crime. The least likely employee was mentioned as being a key subject of interest. Embezzlers don’t see themselves