Chapter 25
Run Me My Money
August
Work trips usually blur together for me.
One plane, one deal, one hotel bar that smells like money and regret.
Rinse. Repeat. San Francisco should’ve felt the same.
Instead, the minute my feet hit the tarmac, all I can think about is Chicago.
About Harlee. About how four days without seeing her feels longer than any red-eye ever has.
Kelley insists on chartering like commercial flights personally offend him. I reluctant indulge him, because on stints like these it’s nice to be in the hands of luxury. It keeps us moving. Keeps the machine fed. Keeps me going.
The trip is quiet until it isn’t.
Kelley slides into the backseat twenty minutes late, jacket crooked, tie loose, looking like he just finished a very enthusiastic exit interview with someone else’s daughter.
I glance at my watch. “We were on the same flight.”
He grins. “Time is relative.”
“Your dick is going to fall off.” I chuckle.
“It’s community service,” he says. “You’re Catholic. You get it.”
I don’t dignify that.
The day unfolds cleanly. A CBD startup downtown, lunch with investors, contracts that slide into place like they’ve been waiting for us.
Wine country after that, a family-owned vineyard outside St. Helena with legacy in every barrel.
They want younger buyers without losing tradition. We tell them it’s possible.
By the time we’re back at the hotel, it’s late. Kelley orders drinks. Sends one across the bar with a smile. A woman joins us briefly, flattered, curious. Kelley’s in his element.
I’m not.
I settle the tab, tell him to email me the Anderson file in the morning, and head upstairs alone.
The room smells like clean linen and expensive soap. I kick off my shoes, loosen my tie, and my phone lights up before I even change.
Harlee: I hope your meetings went well.
I smile automatically.
Me: They did. One signed, one close. Did you get the flowers?
The dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Harlee: I did. They're beautiful. Wynter says if I bring home one more bouquet she's charging rent.
Me: She's jealous.
Harlee: She is spiritual and vengeful.
I laugh, stretch out on the bed, stare at the ceiling like it might explain when "casual" quietly stopped applying.
Me: If she kicks you out, you can move in with me.
The dots pause. Then nothing. Then start again.
Harlee: If you saw how I usually live, you'd rescind the invite.
Me: I've seen your room.
Harlee: That was a good day.
Something settles in my chest at that. Warm. Certain. Like finding the answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.
Me: Can I call?
Harlee: I was dozing. I hadn't heard from you, so I figured I'd check in before bed.
Me: You're already beautiful. You're resting for sport.
Harlee: Did you rehearse that?
Me: Five minutes. New record.
She sends a laughing emoji. Then:
Harlee: I have an update on the thing you asked me to look into.
I sit up. The room suddenly feels smaller.
Me: And?
Harlee: It's not great. I want to double-check a few loose ends before I scare you.
That's Harlee. Exact. Careful. Never dramatic unless it's earned.
Me: Take your time.
I don't sleep much.
A few days later, I’m back at my desk, the city sprawled out beneath me like a canvas on fire.
The skyline blazes in candy-colored streaks—peach, amber, soft lavender—as the sky prepares to exhale.
Early fall. That perfect cusp where the air turns crisp enough to whisper promises through the open window.
And for once, I let myself breathe.
The last light of day catches on the glass towers like celebration, and it feels personal—like the universe knew I needed a win. Preston and I just wrapped our call, the words still ringing in my ears.
Funding approved.
We did it.
No more pacing the office at midnight. No more holding my breath in boardrooms. The deal’s done. The vision’s real.
I sit there a moment longer, letting the glow wrap around me, steady and warm. The office hums with quiet celebration—emails pinging, footsteps quick, voices lifted. My team earned this.
I close my eyes and take it in.
Then the knock.
“Hey, boss,” she says as she steps inside, tablet tucked against her chest. There’s a playful glint in her eye. “I hope it’s okay that I knocked. Sadie wasn’t in her office.”
“Yes. Come in.” I gesture her forward. "Your the best thing about this place."
She closes the door behind her, rolling her eyes. “Good. Because I swear she doesn’t like me. Every time I come up here she redirects me like I’m a lost intern. And before you say I’m paranoid—she’s made it very clear I have no business being in your office.”
I chuckle. “She’s my assistant. It’s her job to protect my time. According to her, she’s intercepted more than a few overly ambitious interns trying to wander in uninvited.”
My voice drops, teasing. “But no one’s keeping me from you.”
“No, you will not ask her to ‘lighten up,’” Harlee says firmly. Then softer, more grounded. “She’s right. I don’t.”
“Nonsense.” I look her over slowly, appreciation unhidden. “How’s my favorite employee today? And that color…” I gesture toward her. “Jesus, Harlee. That color was made for you.”
She rolls her eyes but I catch the corner of her mouth twitch.
“It does things to your skin,” I continue casually. “Makes your eyes look lighter. And that dress?” I tilt my head slightly. “Dangerous.”
She waves me off. “Behave.”
“That was behaved.” I lift a brow. “If I wasn’t, I’d tell you exactly what I’d like to do to you against that glass.”
She knows the look. Desire. Intent. No apology.
Her pulse jumps in her throat.
She clears it. “I’m not here for that.”
“Shame,” I murmur.
I lean back in my chair, letting my gaze drift over her once more before it settles on her eyes again.
“No me tientes así, princesa..”
Don’t tempt me like that, princess.
The words land exactly how I expect them to.
She inhales, just slightly. Composure cracks for half a second.
Then she gathers herself again.
“Though… maybe later.”
My mouth curves.
Now we’re negotiating.
She straightens, pulling the conversation back to safer ground. “I wanted to update you on the audit. Since we’re both in the office.”
“Fine,” I say easily. “If we’re going to talk business, can you at least sit on my lap while you do it?”
She smacks her lips and rolls her eyes so fast even I get whiplash.
“Now you’re just talking crazy,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “Stop. This is serious.”
That shifts something.
I lean back in my chair, nodding once. “Alright.”
A beat.
“Go on.”
She wakes the tablet, fingers moving with ease as she pulls up spreadsheets. Her focus sharpens, professional, precise.
“I reviewed the last two years of budget reports and noticed discrepancies in overhead,” she says. “So I cross-referenced company card transactions with their P.O. numbers. There are only a few people with cards, which narrowed things fast.”
She scrolls. “At first, the numbers evened out. But when I compared billing codes against the P.O.s, I found charges tied to codes we stopped using.”
My chest tightens.
“Small amounts at first,” she continues. “Easy to miss. Then I traced larger transactions. This one”—she taps—“was billed to an account closed six months earlier. No receipt. So I contacted the bank directly.”
My pulse kicks up. “Found what?”
She turns the screen toward me. “Payments for services we never received. Repeated. Consistent.”
The word forms in my head before she even says it.
“How much?” I ask quietly.
“Two hundred fifty-one thousand,” she replies. “Precisely: $250,975.39.”
The number doesn’t just land. It drops like a brick through glass.
I lean back slowly, dragging a hand across my jaw as I stare up at the ceiling.
Cypress.
Of all the people to stick a knife in my house.
“Are you sure?” I ask, hating how thin it sounds the second it leaves my mouth.
Harlee doesn’t flinch. She just nods once. “I verified it multiple times.”
Of course she did.
I sit forward again, elbows on my desk, mind already moving three steps ahead.
“Put together a full report,” I say. “Every charge, every date, every vendor. I want the whole thing airtight before legal sees it.”
A beat.
“I have to tell Kelley.”
She hesitates.
That’s never a good sign.
“August…” she says carefully. “There’s more.”
Of course there is.
There’s always more with people who think they’re clever.
“What else?”
She takes a breath.
“When I pulled the card statements, I traced where the money was going.”
Another pause.
“The pattern was… personal.”
“Personal how?”
She meets my eyes. “He’s been using company funds to finance a relationship.”
I bark a humorless laugh. “You’re joking.”
Her expression doesn’t move.
“An Instagram baddie,” she adds dryly. “Named India.”
She hands me the tablet.
A boat. A red bikini. A face I recognize from last year’s charity photos.
My jaw tightens.
“You’re telling me Cypress pulled this off?”
She shrugs lightly. “Paid content. First-class flights. Dubai. A Birkin. Shopping sprees.”
Jesus.
The room suddenly feels a few feet smaller.
I scrub a hand down my face, staring at the screen again like the numbers might rearrange themselves if I give them enough time.
Over a quarter million dollars.
Over us.
Over everything we built.
“How could he do this?” I murmur.
Harlee’s voice softens. “I’m sorry, August.”
I nod once, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth.
“I didn’t want to be right.”
She offers the tablet back. “Anything you need from me?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ve got it from here.”
Then, quieter—
“Thank you, baby.”
She squeezes my shoulder once before slipping out, leaving me alone with the numbers, the betrayal, and the growing certainty that this is about to fracture far more than a balance sheet.
I sink back into my chair, the city still burning gold outside my windows, and let the win evaporate.
That’s how it always works. One hand gives. The other reminds you nothing stays clean for long.