Clara dropped a stack of files on my desk before lunch, her hands full and her expression exhausted.
"These need to be reviewed and filed before tomorrow," she said, half-apologetic, half-relieved to pass them on.
I looked at the pile, at least three hours' worth of work, and smiled politely. "Alright. I'll handle it."
The moment she walked away, I saw what it really was.
An opportunity.
If I stayed late, no one would question it.
I could finish the reports slowly and have enough time to do what I'd come here for, to find something that could expose Kennedy Peters and the empire he built on secrets.
So I worked slowly. Very slowly.
My fingers moved across the calculator, pressing keys one by one.
My pen tapped against the ledger. Every now and then, I pretended to squint at numbers, correcting errors that didn't exist.
The office gradually thinned out.
One by one, my coworkers packed their bags and said goodnight.
Ada was the last to leave. She smiled and whispered, "Don't work yourself to death, Elena."
"I won't," I lied.
When the clock hit eight, silence swallowed the room.
The air conditioner hummed steadily, and the only light came from the white fluorescent bulbs that flickered faintly above me.
The stillness felt heavier than usual, pressing against my chest.
I waited another ten minutes, then stood up.
My legs ached slightly from sitting too long.
I picked up my phone, checked the hallway, empty, and walked toward the smaller archive room at the end of the finance wing.
That room wasn't meant for me. I'd heard Clara mention once that only senior accountants had access to it.
The door was always locked, but tonight, it stood slightly open. Maybe someone had forgotten to lock it before leaving.
Luck or fate, I didn't care which.
I slipped inside.
The air smelled of dust and paper.
Rows of metal shelves lined the walls, packed with binders and folders labeled in neat handwriting.
The dim yellow light overhead buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the room.
I pulled out a few files and flipped through them. Invoices. Old transaction records. Internal audits.
My eyes scanned the columns of figures, looking for anything that didn't add up, large sums with no explanation, repeated entries, mismatched dates. Something. Anything.
But every page looked spotless, too spotless.
No company was that clean.
I reached for another folder, thicker than the rest. That's when I heard it.
A voice. Deep. Controlled. Sharp.
"What are you doing here?"
My breath caught.
I turned around, the folder still in my hand. Mr. Kennedy stood by the doorway, his presence filling the room like a storm.
His tie was loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.
But his eyes, his eyes were cold steel.
"I..." My voice trembled. "I was just… trying to go through some old figures. I noticed some inconsistencies in the files, so I thought maybe I could check the older records to understand..."
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "You shouldn't be in here."
I swallowed hard. "I know, sir. I just thought..."
He cut me off. "This section is restricted to authorized personnel only. You're not authorized."
His tone wasn't raised, but every word landed with weight.
"I wasn't trying to do anything wrong," I said quickly. "I just wanted to understand the numbers better."
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne; clean, dark, with a faint trace of smoke.
His eyes locked on mine, searching for something. I couldn't tell if it was anger, suspicion, or something else entirely.
"Do you always break company rules when you want answers?" he asked.
"No, sir," I whispered.
He studied me for a long moment, his jaw tightening slightly. The silence stretched. My palms grew damp.
Then his voice softened, barely. "You shouldn't stay in this building after office hours again. Ever. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
His eyes didn't leave mine. "Good. Pack your things and go home."
I nodded quickly and moved past him.
My heartbeat echoed in my ears as I gathered my bag and files from my desk.
My hands trembled while I shut down my computer. I could still feel his presence behind me, standing by that door, watching.
When I finally walked toward the elevator, I glanced back once.
He was still there. Still watching. Then, as the elevator doors closed, I saw him turn and lock the archive room.
By the time I stepped outside, the night air hit me like a wave, cool and heavy with the smell of rain.
The streetlights cast long reflections on the wet pavement. My heels clicked softly against the floor as I started down the road that led toward the main gate.
The city beyond the glass tower was almost quiet, except for the hum of distant traffic.
My thoughts swirled, his tone, his stare, the way his voice filled the room. He wasn't just a businessman.
There was something darker beneath that calm. Something dangerous.
Headlights swept across the street behind me.
I moved aside, assuming it was one of the company cars leaving. But then the vehicle slowed down beside me.
The window slid down.
Mr. Kennedy sat in the back seat, his face partly shadowed by the dim interior light. The driver waited silently.
"Get in," he said.
I blinked, startled. "It's fine, sir. I can walk home."
He didn't move, didn't blink. "Get in."
The tone this time was firm, leaving no room for argument.
My pulse jumped. Something in his eyes, authority, command, and something else I couldn't name, made it impossible to refuse.
I hesitated for a moment, then reached for the door handle.
As I stepped into the car, the window slid up, sealing me inside.