When my boss, Victor Kroll, learned I had stage II lymphoma, he didn't offer sick leave.
Victor Kroll gripped the phone, the cold glass of his penthouse window reflecting the city lights. His voice was a low growl, meant only for the receiver.
“Freeze Dempsey’s account. All of them. Effective immediately.”
He listened for a moment, then added, “Every last cent. Make sure that forty-two thousand doesn’t clear.”
His face remained impassive, betraying nothing but a grim satisfaction. He believed Sloan was trying to extort him, to bleed the syndicate dry for her own gain. This was his countermove.
My phone buzzed in my hand as I stared at the banking app. The screen flashed a bright, stark red: “Transaction Declined. Funds Frozen.”
The pending $42,000 payment for my first round of chemotherapy, scheduled for tomorrow morning, had vanished. My offshore trust, a safety net built over years of meticulous, high-stakes accounting, was locked solid.
A wave of dizziness washed over me, sharper than the pain from my diagnosis. This wasn’t about money for a lavish life. This was about survival.
Gabriel Moreau watched my face from across the opulent suite. He hadn’t touched his champagne.
“What is it, Sloan?” His voice was calm, but his eyes held a calculating edge.
I didn’t need to explain the full story. He knew Victor’s methods. He knew the stakes.
“Victor moved faster than I anticipated,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “He hit my personal accounts.”
My hand trembled, a stark contrast to the elegant silk of my gown. The gala’s soft jazz music seemed to mock the sudden, crushing silence in my head.
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