CHAPTER 24
Caroline
“Hallelujah.” Eyal throws both hands into the air, his two team members mirroring him.
“YES.” I jump up from my chair.
It’s only noon here, three in the afternoon in New York, ten at night in London, and I want to scream at the top of my lungs.
Yes. I got it. We got it.
Celina finally connected the dots, aligning her findings with Eyal’s work. She’s been grinding behind the scenes for months, never showing her face on video, only her voice, masked as an anonymous consultant. Connor still doesn’t know she’s working for me in London. Not yet.
Five months for all of us from the beginning of this project. But the last three months - three brutal, relentless months of work - have provided results.
And now, we have it. Solid evidence.
We’re ready. We’re going to hit hard.
Every trail lines up. Spending patterns traced cleanly to two vendors - different entities, identical fingerprints. Under-the-table commissions. Laundered rebates. Fake account incentives that never existed.
Marie is in George’s pocket, just as I suspected.
I pause there. She has two girls to put through Cambridge. I won’t destroy her if I don’t have to. It was a terrible and unforgivable mistake but if there’s a way out for her without permanently staining her career, I’ll find it.
Another account manager under Arjun is dirty too. They’ve been bleeding the company dry together - phantom rebates, hidden commissions, cash siphoned off in plain sight.
And the veteran Arjun. He knew. He always knew. He just never had a way to prove it. Now, I understand his silence months ago. The accounts I fought to recover? They were under that manager’s scope.
It all fits.
Now there’s only one question left: who’s the mole?
My victory doesn’t last long. My phone buzzes.
“Would you be available to meet this afternoon, Ms. Hammond?”
Roman.
“I have two meetings this afternoon,” I text back. “Can we do five p.m.?
His response comes immediately. “I have a security debrief at that time about Connor’s safety. I can’t do five. Everything’s in. My team worked with Eyal. All transactions mapped.”
Of course. The attempt on Connor’s life has detonated their entire world. Nothing outranks that, not now.
Another message follows. “We also have photographs. Gloria can coordinate a drop-off if today doesn’t work. I can do a phone debrief next week.”
“No,” I decide instantly. “I’ll meet you at three. I’ll be there at the house, in the study. Please tell Gloria or Francesco.”
“Understood. I’ll be there and handle everything.”
“Thanks, Roman. See you.” I pocket my phone and tell my assistant to move my two meetings to next week.
I turn back to Eyal, Celina, and the team. We dive in again, tightening the narrative. Strip it clean. Highlight every unethical spend, every falsified rebate, every traceable transaction.
Roman will provide the images. The hard proof. The final nail. Now Eyal and Celina just need to package it, first for the board, then for regional leadership.
George Rubin. Your turn on the chopping block.
How dare you steal from this company?
My slow hunt has finally paid off.
***
The floor slips out from under me. Like someone yanked the rug without warning.
My knees buckle. I grip the edge of the table and force myself down into the chair, breath shallow, deliberate - in, out - until the room steadies.
I’m in my three p.m. meeting with Roman. I stare at the photographs. At the faces.
I don’t believe my eyes.
The mole.
Jill.
My assistant. The one I’ve been grooming. The one I trusted, supported, defended, invested in. The one I thought I was building.
Transactions into her account. Only the last five months but the timing is precise. That’s when George’s financial became apprehensive and more consistent. Together.
And the photos.
George and Jill - too close, too familiar. Laughing across a restaurant table, bodies angled inward. Leaning into each other without hesitation. Wrapped around one another as they walk, intimately.
Are they in a relationship? He has, or had, a girlfriend. And Jill… Jill has a fiancé. I saw them two weeks ago in a department store. She introduced him to me, glowing, called him the love of her life.
What the hell? How do you trust someone like that?
I shake my head, hard, clearing the fog. I don’t let myself spiral. I stay sharp. Focused. The evidence is clean. The images are legitimate. The transactions undeniable.
There’s no ambiguity. No room for doubt.
I thank Roman and leave half an hour later, composed, professional, every inch in control. But something stays behind in that room.
In my car, I sit back, the dull ache settling in my chest. Not anger. Not even rage.
Sadness.
I don’t know why it always has to be this hard to trust. I really thought I’d found someone worth believing in. Someone I could build, protect, bet on.
Instead, I found the cost of being wrong. And my heart aches quietly for it.
***
“Oh my God, you did?” My father breathes, the disbelief almost boyish.
His eyes are wide, absurdly wide, and my mother’s jaw is still somewhere on the floor.
For a fleeting second, I see it as if animated: the two of them frozen mid-frame, silverware suspended, expressions exaggerated beyond dignity.
If anyone had told me this would be their reaction, I would have laughed.
“We don’t even talk about the price,” my mother says, regaining composure first. “That is a masterpiece. Extremely rare.”
From the beginning of dinner, their reaction has evolved in quiet stages: mild curiosity that I brought a man, an actual straight man outside my usual orbit, then measured approval (as if I required it), and now, complete captivation.
Edoardo casually mentioned how he’d facilitated the acquisition of an imperial Ming Dynasty vase.
My parents aren’t demonstrative people. No soft tears.
No dramatic embraces. I inherited my coolness from them - genetically engineered restraint.
And still, this is how they react - a reverent astonishment.
“Wow. Just wow.” My father leans back, studying Edoardo like a rare artifact himself. “We have valuable pieces at home, yes. But art is about rarity. About access. And you did that?”
Edoardo nods once, modest. He earned no commission for the transaction but something far more valuable - a reputation. The kind serious collectors remember. The kind that opens doors without knocking.
We’re nearly done with dinner. Waiting for the check. My parents hang on every word he says, and honestly, I don’t blame them. Italians carry flair like a birthright. Even transaction stories sound seductive when told in that cadence.
“So, Daddy,” I say gently, pulling the conversation back to what I had texted him about. “I can handle George and the account manager. But what do I do with Marie?”
“You’re no fun, Cara,” my mother murmurs, arching a brow. “We can discuss corporate executions next week.”
“Mama, I have a board meeting Monday. London on Tuesday. Then Lake Como.” I shrug lightly.
My father’s expression sharpens, business settling into place.
“The company is yours. You earned it. But if you want my opinion, give her a way out. Call her in before George. Keep them separate. HR present. Let her decide how she wants to exit. Of course she cannot stay. But dignity costs you nothing.”
I nod slowly. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“You look sad, Cara,” my mother says quietly.
The words catch me off guard.
“Aren’t you supposed to feel triumphant? You’re uprooting a corruption scheme.” My mother continues.
“I am,” I answer. And then something tightens in my throat. “It’s just… someone I trusted was the mole.”
My mother’s voice softens. “People have a thousand layers, honey. Don’t exhaust yourself digging through the bad ones. Protect your good people.”
I wish wisdom were as easy to live as it is to speak.
“Ma…” I begin… and stop.
Her eyes widen. Not emotional this time. Alarmed. My father’s jaw tightens, a subtle shift but unmistakable.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to. I already know the few names that could pull that reaction from my very restrained parents. I feel the air behind me change. Edoardo senses it too; I can feel his attention flicker toward me, a silent question he’s too perceptive to ask out loud.
The check arrives like a mercy. We pay. We stand. We leave. I can feel eyes on my back as we walk out. Someone’s watching but hesitating, not daring to approach. A presence hovering just at the edge of memory.
And then, by instinct more than intention, I glance toward the bar. There he is. Brandon.
For a heartbeat, the room folds in on itself. Sound dulls. Light softens at the edges. He looks almost the same. Recognition flickers across his face, moving from my parents to me, like he’s assembling a past life in real time.
My steps don’t stop, but they slow, just enough for the moment to breathe. For one suspended second, there’s only the quiet acknowledgment of two people who used to know each other, or at least I used to think I knew him.
Then I turn away. He won’t dare to move toward me.
Outside, the cold air hits my face, clean and decisive, and the spell snaps.
Brandon, my first love. My first of a lot of things. My parents hated him. They believed his betrayal shattered me, fractured my trust in men and in relationships. They weren’t wrong. Not entirely.
Brandon. For all I care, he can go to hell.
But Connor is the only one who knows the whole story. Connor who sat with me through the long, lightless stretch when I wasn’t sure I’d come back from myself.