Chapter 4 - THE VALE TOWER
The Vale Building didn't look like an office; it looked like a fortress carved from dark glass and arrogance.
When the town car dropped me off at 7:55 the next morning, I stood on the polished granite steps in my only decent pantsuit—a charcoal-gray hand-me-down from an aunt that made me look like an aspiring mortician—and stared up at the towering monolith piercing the gray Chicago sky.
The brass key in my pocket felt like a burning coal.
I pushed through the revolving glass doors. The lobby was a cavern of white marble, brushed steel, and security guards who looked like they moonlighted as cage fighters.
Before I could even approach the sleek marble reception desk, a tall, sharp-featured woman with silver-streaked hair stepped out from the elevator banks. She wore a tailored navy suit and carried a titanium tablet.
“Mave Sullivan?” she asked, her voice clipped and professional.
“Yes?”
“I’m Evelyn, Mr. Mercer’s chief of staff. Follow me.”
She didn't wait for a response. She turned on her heel, her low heels clicking sharply against the marble, and led me past a row of gaping security guards straight to a private elevator banked away from the public lobby.
She swiped a black card against the sensor. The doors slid open with a soft hiss.
We rode up in silence. The digital floor indicator climbed past numbers I didn't know existed in a commercial building.
45... 46... 47... 50.
The doors opened directly into a sprawling, glass-walled penthouse that took my breath away.
The entire city of Chicago lay spread out below us like a miniature railway set, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that captured the gray majesty of Lake Michigan. The decor was minimalist and intimidating—dark wood, leather furniture, and abstract paintings that probably cost more than my entire block.
At the far end of the room stood a massive mahogany desk.
Rowan Mercer stood behind it, examining a stack of physical documents. He had discarded his overcoat, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick, scarred wrists and forearms that hinted at a violent past hidden beneath the corporate tailoring.
He looked up as Evelyn and I approached.
“You’re early,” Rowan noted, checking a sleek watch on his wrist.
“I didn't want to give myself time to change my mind,” I replied honestly, keeping my hands clenched tightly at my sides so he wouldn't see them shaking.
Rowan gave a short, approving nod. He motioned to Evelyn, who handed me a thick leather folder before stepping away toward a set of double doors on the opposite side of the room.
“That is the ledger for Mercer Maritime Logistics,” Rowan said, walking around the desk and stopping a few feet from me. Up close, the scent of expensive tobacco and cold winter air was just as potent as it had been in the bar. “It contains the primary shipping records for the last quarter. Find the discrepancy in the 14th-street warehouse accounts. You have two hours.”
I looked down at the heavy folder. My instincts as an analyst flared to life, momentarily overriding my terror.
“A discrepancy?” I asked, looking up. “What kind? Embezzlement, tax routing, or customs mislabeling?”
“If I knew what kind it was, I wouldn't need an accountant,” Rowan replied dryly. “Get to work. There’s coffee on the side table.”
He walked back to his desk, dismissing me as casually as if I were a piece of office furniture.
I bit my lip, clutched the ledger to my chest, and walked over to a smaller, sleek glass desk set up near the window.
For the next two hours, the world outside ceased to exist.
The numbers on the pages weren't just data; they were a language. I traced columns of shipping weights, dock fees, and inventory manifests, my mind calculating ratios and cross-referencing figures with municipal records I pulled up on the sleek terminal provided on the desk.
By hour two, my fingers were flying across the keyboard.
I found it.
It wasn't a mistake. It was a deliberate, surgical siphon buried deep within the payroll accounts of a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands.
I stood up, walking across the polished floor toward Rowan’s massive desk.
He didn't look up immediately as I approached. He was deep in a hushed, intense phone call, speaking in clipped, lethal tones about a “consignment” and a “leak in the harbor precinct.”
I waited patiently, holding the ledger open to page 142.
When Rowan hung up, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly every bit of his exhaustion. He looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine.
“Well?”
I laid the ledger down on his desk and pointed a finger at a neat, highlighted row of figures.
“It’s not a logistical error,” I said clearly. “Whoever is stealing from you isn't touching the main shipping manifests. They’re using phantom employees on the payroll of Mercer Maritime Logistics. Fourteen fake stevedores are drawing full benefits and hourly wages every week, and the money is being funneled through an LLC called Apex Holdings.”
Rowan stared at the page.
His eyes tracked the numbers I had pointed out. The silence stretched for ten seconds, then twenty.
Slowly, a dangerous, razor-thin smile spread across his face.
“Apex Holdings,” Rowan murmured, tasting the words like poison. “That’s managed by Marcus Vance. My own head of operations.”
“He’s been skimming roughly forty thousand dollars a month for the last three years,” I added, unable to keep a touch of professional pride out of my voice. “He thought nobody would look at the payroll variance because the main profit margins kept going up.”
Rowan looked up from the ledger, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch.
“You found in two hours what my previous accountant missed for three years,” he said softly.
“My father always said numbers don't lie,” I whispered. “People lie. Decimals don't.”
May you like
Rowan stood up slowly, leaning across the desk. The distance between us suddenly felt entirely too small.
“Mave Sullivan,” he said, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I think hiring you might be the best, or the worst, mistake I’ve ever made.”
