“Adrian left his signature files on the kitchen counter yesterday,” Vanessa said, her voice dropping to a soft, mocking whisper. “He asked me to run these back over before the executive committee meets.”
She brushed her long hair back over her shoulder, her gaze lingering on the neat rows of tax folders I had arranged on the kitchen island. She did not ask to sit down, nor did she offer to help with the papers scattered across the granite surface.
“I can take those, Vanessa,” I said, keeping my hands resting flat on the counter. “I review all of Adrian’s personal contract obligations before they are executed.”
Vanessa set the navy folder down, but as she drew her hand back, a small slip of pink paper slid from beneath the leather binding. It fluttered onto the marble counter, landing right beside my coffee cup.
It was a receipt from a boutique on Newbury Street for a custom-tailored silver gown, totaling four thousand eight hundred dollars. The billing address at the bottom was not Vanessa’s apartment, but the primary corporate account of Valeon Technologies.
“My mistake,” Vanessa whispered, her fingers lingering near the edge of the paper before she pulled them back. “That belongs to the promotional budget for the upcoming autumn gala.”
“The promotional budget does not typically cover individual evening wear for non-executive staff,” I said, my voice remaining entirely flat.
She smiled, a tiny, sharp movement of her lips, and walked out the back door into the cool evening air.
By ten o’clock, the smell of rain was coming through the open kitchen window, and Adrian was back, pouring himself three fingers of scotch at the wet bar. He did not offer me a glass, nor did he mention the navy folder Vanessa had delivered.
