You’re just back-office support, Clara, so you’ll stay in Chicago while the executive team flies to Rome, my boss, Julian Kincaid, told me before leaving for his sister's $1.4 million villa wedding.
The wedding reception moved from the grand ballroom to the sprawling, manicured gardens of the villa. Fairy lights draped through ancient cypress trees cast a magical glow. The scent of jasmine mingled with expensive perfume.
I found a quiet spot near a stone fountain, watching the water dance. The villa tower clock, illuminated by spotlights, read 10:15 PM. Less than two hours to midnight.
A shadow fell over me. Julian Kincaid stood there, his face no longer suave. His jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed. He had shed the public facade entirely.
“Clara,” he hissed, his voice low and tight. “What have you done?”
I looked up at him calmly. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Julian.”
“Don’t play coy,” he snapped, leaning closer, his gaze predatory. “The syndicate has locked our credit lines. They’re asking about ‘missing collateral verification’ for the trust. This is your doing.”
He took a step closer, crowding my space. “You’re going to clear that flag, Clara. Right now. Or you’ll be fired on the spot. I will ensure you’re blacklisted from this industry. I will sue you for corporate sabotage until you have nothing left.”
His words were sharp, meant to cut. But I felt nothing.
“My employment status has no bearing on the syndicate’s compliance protocol, Julian,” I stated, my voice even. “Nor does it change the reality of their due diligence requirements.”
He stared at me, disbelief warring with rage. “You think you can just sit there? This is an eighteen-million-dollar deal, Clara. My entire European expansion!”
“It certainly is,” I agreed, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Which makes proper collateral verification all the more important, wouldn’t you say?”
His chest heaved. He clearly expected me to break, to beg.
“You have precisely one hour and forty-five minutes, Julian,” I said, gesturing subtly towards the clock tower. “Before that deadline, the syndicate’s rules will make your leverage over my family’s assets… irrelevant.”
He followed my gaze to the illuminated clock, then back to me, a flicker of something new—dawning horror—in his eyes. The party music, light and cheerful, seemed a cruel counterpoint to the tension between us.
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