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WILLOW

T he spreadsheet glows on my monitor like a neon billboard screaming “something’s wrong here.

” I lean back in my chair, the vinyl squeaking like a dying mouse, and run the numbers again in my head.

Same result. Someone’s either criminally incompetent or criminally motivated.

Either way, it’s not my fault, but it’s about to become my problem.

I mutter under my breath, “You wanted Manhattan, you wanted the big leagues. Congrats, Willow, you’re in the big leagues. Now stop being a coward and go tell Rader.”

My fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the edge of my desk. The office hums around me, a symphony of keyboard clicks, hushed chatter, and the occasional printer jam. My cubicle walls are beige, the carpet is beige, and honestly, my existence feels pretty beige right now. But this? This is neon.

I grab the printed spreadsheet and my notes, stuffing them into a folder like I’m hiding evidence. My palms are slick, and I wipe them on my skirt before standing. My heels click against the floor as I head toward Rader’s office, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The door is open, which is worse than closed. Closed implies privacy. Open feels like a trap. Jim’s sitting at his desk, his face twisted into that permanent grimace that makes him look like he’s just smelled something rotten. He doesn’t look up when I knock lightly on the doorframe.

“Uh, Mr. Rader? Got a minute?” My voice comes out too high, too squeaky.

He finally glances up, his eyes narrowing like he’s already regretting this conversation. “What is it, Christian?”

“I found something. In the copy toner budget. It’s… off.” I step inside, holding out the folder like it’s a ticking bomb.

He takes it, flipping through the pages with the speed of someone who’s already decided this is a waste of his time. “Off how?”

“Someone’s either terrible at math or actively stealing.” I brace myself for his reaction.

He pauses, his face doing this thing where it gets even pinched-er, if that’s possible. “You sure about this?”

“I’ve triple-checked it. The numbers don’t add up. Someone’s funneling money somewhere, and it’s not going to copy toner.” I cross my arms, then uncross them, then wonder what to do with my hands.

Jim leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He stares at me like I’ve just accused him of being the culprit. “You realize what you’re suggesting? Accusing someone of embezzlement? That’s a big claim for someone who’s been here, what, three months?”

“It’s not personal. It’s math.” I clench my jaw, refusing to back down. “And I’m good at math.”

He sighs, long and dramatic, like I’ve just ruined his day. “Fine. I’ll look into it. But if this is a mistake on your end, Christian, you’re going to regret it.”

“It’s not.” My voice is steadier now, though my stomach is churning.

He waves me off, already burying his nose in another file. “Close the door on your way out.”

I step back into the hallway, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hands are still trembling, but I feel a weird sense of relief. At least I did something. At least I didn’t just let it slide.

Now I just have to wait and see if I’m about to be the office hero or the office pariah. Or worse, both.

The clock on my desk ticks louder than it has any right to.

It’s like it’s mocking me, each click echoing in my ears.

I’ve been jumpy all day, my nerves frayed like old rope.

Every time someone walks by my cubicle, my head snaps up like a meerkat on alert.

But Jim hasn’t come back. No call. No email.

Just silence. And silence from Jim is never a good thing.

Five o’clock rolls around, and I can’t take it anymore.

My stomach is in knots, and my hands are ice-cold despite the thermostat being set to “sahara.” I grab my printed spreadsheets, my fingers trembling so much the papers shake like leaves in a storm.

I head to Jim’s office, my heels clicking faster than my heartbeat.

I raise my hand to knock, but then I hear his voice. It’s low, urgent, and dripping with something I can’t quite place. Fear? Anger? Both? I freeze, my knuckles hovering an inch from the door.

“Five Gs to end somebody?” Jim’s voice cuts through the wood like a knife. My breath catches in my throat. End somebody?

There’s a long pause, and then he laughs, but it’s not the kind of laugh that’s funny. It’s the kind that makes your skin crawl. “Relax, nobody’s tapping the phones. Old man Keong has no idea we’ve siphoned almost a cool million out from under his big nose.”

My heart hammers in my chest, and for a second, I think I might pass out. Are they talking about me? Would they really—? No. No, that’s insane. But then again, Jim’s voice doesn’t sound insane. It sounds calculated. Cold.

I back away from the door, my mind racing.

I can’t take the risk. I run back to my cubicle, my heels clacking against the floor like a frantic Morse code.

I print out another set of spreadsheets, my hands shaking so much I almost drop the papers.

I don’t bother with a folder. I just grab them and bolt for the elevator.

I’m halfway there when I slam into something solid. The papers fly out of my hands, scattering across the floor like confetti. I drop to my knees, scrambling to gather them, but a pair of polished black shoes steps into my line of sight.

“Let me help you with that,” Jim says, his voice smooth as silk. He crouches down, his fingers brushing against mine as he picks up a sheet. He’s silent for a long moment, then his eyes flicker over the numbers. His jaw tightens, and when he looks at me, his smile is gone.

“What’s this, Christian? You taking a little trip upstairs?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes my blood run cold.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Just… double-checking some numbers.”

“Double-checking?” He straightens up, his eyes narrowing. “That’s funny. Because it looks like you’re stirring up trouble.”

“I’m just doing my job,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

The air between us thickens like concrete.

Jim’s eyes narrow, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that’s not quite a smile.

I glance around the empty hallway, my stomach twisting.

The office is a ghost town. Everyone’s gone home, leaving me alone with the human equivalent of a bear trap.

“Give me the papers, Willow.” His voice is low, calm, and utterly terrifying. He takes a step forward, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor.

The elevator dings, its cheerful sound a cruel joke at this moment. I see my chance and take it. I point behind him, my voice pitched high with panic. “Help! I think he wants to hurt me!”

Jim’s face goes pale, his head snapping around to look behind him. It’s the split second I need. I bolt, my heels clacking like gunshots as I sprint down the hall. The damn buckles on my shoes jangle, slowing me down, but I don’t have time to stop and kick them off.

I dive into another elevator car, mashing the button for the top floor.

The doors start to close, and I see Jim charging toward me, his hand outstretched.

The doors slam shut just as he reaches them, and I sag against the wall, my chest heaving.

My finger must’ve slipped because the elevator lights up like a Christmas tree, stopping at every floor on the way up.

The ride feels like an eternity. Each ding of the elevator makes my heart jump. Finally, the doors open, and I step out—only to freeze. Jim’s already there, leaning casually against the door to Ray’s office, his arms crossed.

“If you’d stop running,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery, “you could hear my offer. This could be one hell of an opportunity for you, Christian. I can cut you into my little side gig. But only if you don’t spill the beans.”

I don’t wait for him to finish. I scream, “HELP!” and take off in the opposite direction. The elevator doors are closed, and I’m not sticking around to wait. I sprint for the only other door I can see—the Carpenter Boardroom.

I burst inside, slamming the door behind me and quickly tipping over chairs and a podium in a desperate attempt to slow him down. Jim laughs, the sound echoing through the room. He steps inside, his movements smooth and deliberate.

“You’re running out of places to go, Willow,” he taunts, his voice light, almost playful.

I back up until I feel the cool glass of the window pressing against my back. My legs give out, and I slide down to the floor, trembling. Jim stalks closer, his shadow looming over me.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Don’t hurt me. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

His face hardens, the mask of civility slipping away. “That’s right, bitch,” he hisses, his eyes gleaming with malice, “you won’t!”

Jim lunges forward, fingers curled like claws—then a massive hand slaps down on top of his greasy head with a sound like a watermelon dropped on pavement.

Jim’s scream cuts through the boardroom as his feet leave the floor.

The polished leather of his loafers dangles a solid foot above the carpet, kicking like a wind-up toy.

Raymond Keong— Jesus Christ, how does anyone move that fast or lift like that? —holds him aloft like a misbehaving kitten. His grip doesn’t even tremble.

Mr. Rader’s face purples. "Mr. Keong!" His voice cracks into a falsetto. "She’s stealing! Embezzling! Dozens of discrepancies?—"

"I’m not !" My voice shatters, raw and desperate. The tears are hot, my cheeks wet, but I force the words through clenched teeth. "I ran the numbers. He’s the one skimming. A million, he said it ?—"

Raymond’s golden eyes snap to me. I freeze.

For a second, the world narrows to that stare. Not just a color— actual gold , molten and relentless. His nostrils flare, scenting the air like something hunting . Then, without breaking eye contact, he drops Jim.

The thud of Rader hitting the floor is deeply satisfying.

Raymond crouches beside me in one fluid motion, his tailored suit stretching over shoulders broad enough to block out the sun.

The scent of him—spice and something sharp-edged, like lightning—hits me full force.

His eyes rake over me, lingering on my throat, my collarbones, the frantic rise and fall of my chest.

"Innocent." The word rumbles out of him, gravel and velvet. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, smearing a tear. "Prove it."

I swallow. "The spreadsheets. His own voice ?—"

Jim scrambles to his knees. "Lies! That little pencil-pusher can’t track her own lunch receipts, let alone?—"

Raymond’s head turns just enough to pin him with a look. Jim’s mouth clicks shut.

Then—

A shadow flickers over Raymond’s face. Just for a second, his skin shimmers , scales flashing beneath human veneer. My breath catches.

He sees me see it. His lips curl. Not a smile. A threat.

"Well, Ms. Christian?" His thumb traces my bottom lip. "How deep does your honesty go?"

“I can’t say that I did not see what I saw,” I say, my voice steady despite the hurricane of thoughts spinning in my head.

The spreadsheets tremble in my hands, but my eyes lock onto his.

I’m not just talking about the embezzlement now.

I’m talking about him . The flash of gold scales, the inhuman ridge of his brow—I saw it. I didn’t imagine it.

Raymond’s golden eyes narrow, and for a second, I wonder if he’s going to crush me like a tin can. “And who are you going to tell?” His voice is low, a growl that rumbles through the air like distant thunder.

“I’ve already told the only person who matters.” My heart hammers in my chest, but I force my words to come out calm, measured. “You.”

He studies me, his gaze piercing, like he’s trying to see through every lie I’ve ever told. The tension in the room is so thick I could cut it with a knife. Then he raises an eyebrow, and I think I see a flicker of something—amusement? Respect?—in those molten gold eyes.

He plucks the spreadsheets from my hands, his movements fluid. His eyes scan the numbers, and I can practically see the calculations clicking behind them. Across the room, Jim makes his move. He scrambles to his feet, his loafers squeaking against the polished floor, and bolts for the door.

Raymond doesn’t even look up. He grabs the nearest office chair—a heavy, polished thing that probably costs more than my rent—and hurls it across the room like it’s made of cardboard. The chair slams into Jim’s back with a sickening thud , and he goes down in a heap, groaning.

“We have a problem, Rader,” Raymond says, his voice like a hammer striking steel. He strides toward Jim, the spreadsheets still in his hand. “The embezzlement would appear to go back almost a year—a full nine months before Ms. Christian joined our little retinue.”

Jim looks up, his face pale and sweaty. “Mr. Keong, I can explain?—”

“Shut up,” Raymond snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. He crouches down, his massive frame looming over Jim like a storm cloud. “You’ve been stealing from me, Rader. Stealing from me . Do you have any idea what happens to people who cross me?”

Jim whimpers, his bravado completely shattered. I watch from the corner of the room, my heart still racing, but a strange sense of relief washes over me. I’m not the one in the crosshairs anymore.

Raymond stands, towering over both of us. “Ms. Christian,” he says, his gaze flicking to me. “You have my attention. Now, let’s see if you’re worth keeping it.”