Page 9 of Forbidden Boss

And God help me, I like it.

“You’ll thank me later,” I say finally. My voice comes out lower, rougher than I intend.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs. “You’re being an ass just for the sake of being an ass.”

The air crackles between us, charged and dangerous. I could push. Could lean in, remind her of the way she begged for me with her body, strip away that anger until it turns into something else entirely. But I don’t. I can’t. Because the truth cuts deeper than either of us are ready for.

She isn’t just another employee. I’m becoming dangerously obsessed with her.

I pull back, force my face blank. “Go home, Ms.Gonzales.”

Her jaw tightens. For a second, I think she might argue again but she only shakes her head, gathers her things, and walks past me without another word.

5

MARI

Numbers have always been clean to me. They don’t lie, don’t spin half-truths, don’t hide behind smiles or excuses. They lay themselves bare, and if you know how to read them, you can unravel all their secrets.

That’s why I chose this field, why forensic accounting appealed to me more than any glossy finance job. I like peeling back layers, catching the hairline cracks beneath the surface. After a week at Levcon, I’ve begun to see several cracks.

It started small. A vendor account that didn’t reconcile. A wire transfer that looked oddly timed. At first I chalked it up to sloppy bookkeeping. Big companies bleed inefficiencies in ways no one ever notices. But when I followed the threads, the cracks widened. Numbers didn’t add up. Balances skipped months. By Thursday afternoon, I’d traced almost $200,000 no one could explain.

That isn’t company inefficiency. Someone is stealing money, on purpose. Unfortunately, the numbers can’t tell me who or why.

I sit back in my chair, staring at the stack of spreadsheets and printouts. The office has grown quiet as people trickle out for the evening, but I stay, my lamp the only glow in the small space. My pulse picks up as I shuffle the pages, check the numbers again, make sure I’m not imagining it. The trail is there, plain as day. Someone is siphoning money, and not in a subtle way.

I tell myself to wait. To gather more proof, to dig deeper before I say anything. But the part of me that has worked so hard to get here pushes me to act. If there is fraud inside Levcon, it’s my duty to report it. That’s the whole reason I was hired.

So I gather the folder, smooth the pages, and walk down the hall toward the corner office. The closer I come to his door, the tighter my stomach knots.

Lev is inside, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looks up when I knock, his eyes sharp and unreadable as always.

“Ms.Gonzales,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It’s late.”

“I know.” My voice is steady, even as my palms go damp against the folder. “I found something you need to see.”

I cross the room and set the folder on his desk. He glances at it, then at me, before flipping it open. His gaze scans the pages with the precision of a blade, and I wait for the approval, the thanks, the recognition that I’m doing exactly what I was hired to do.

Instead, his jaw tightens. His shoulders stiffen. And when his eyes lift to mine, they burn.

“Where did you find this?” His voice is low, controlled, but there is an edge to it that slices straight through me.

I blink, thrown. “In your accounts. The discrepancies were buried, but I traced them. It looks like a couple hundred thousand dollars has gone missing over the last few months. I thought?—”

“I already know everything I need to know,” he snaps, handing back the folder. “What I want from you is thoroughness. If you find a hole, you do not come here with half answers. You track every penny. Every single one. And you do not set foot in my office again until you have the full picture. Do you understand?”

I swallow hard and resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, sir,” I mutter.

“Good.” He shoves the folder back toward me, the pages sliding against the desk. “Get back to work.”

I gather the folder with stiff fingers, my pulse pounding in my ears. I want to argue, to defend myself, to demand to know why he was so angry when I’m just doing exactly what I was hired to do. But his expression dares me to push further, and I know I would lose. So, I turn and leave, the folder clutched to my chest.

As the door closes behind me, the sound of something crashing inside makes me jump. A glass, maybe. Then his voice roars, low but furious, words I can’t make out.

I freeze in the hall, my heart racing. He must be on the phone, shouting at someone, his tone sharp enough to cut through the thick door. A second crash follows, and I back away, pulse hammering.

I duck into my office, shut the door quietly, and press my back to it. My hands shake as I set the folder down, my mind racing.