Chapter Twenty-Four
LEONI
My phone rings for the seventh time in under two hours.
I frown, staring at the screen before answering. “Hello?”
“Miss Dove?” a man asks. “It’s Nigel calling from Lean Gate Offices. You dropped a CV off yesterday?”
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat, glancing over at Mum, who’s watching me far too closely. “That’s right.”
“We’d love to invite you in for an interview, if possible.”
My brows lift. “Yes. That would be great.”
“Perfect. Later today? Say, two o’clock?”
I glance at my watch. “I’ll be there.”
I disconnect and just stare. Mum waits. Patient. Hopeful.
“That’s my eighth interview offer today,” I say finally.
Her mouth falls open. “How many CVs did you drop off?”
“Twelve.”
She lets out a low whistle. “That’s incredible. You’ll have your pick of jobs.”
I sink back into the chair beside her as she lifts the cracked screen of her outdated iPad, pushing her glasses higher up her nose.
“I don’t know what I’ve done wrong,” she mutters. “Is it even possible to access someone else’s account?”
I smirk faintly. “Virtually impossible for any normal person,” I say, leaning closer as she logs in. “But for you? Who knows.”
She taps each key carefully, painfully slow.
“And you used the exact same login details?” I ask.
“Yes. Same ones I’ve had for twenty years.”
The account loads. My breath leaves me in a rush.
“Jesus,” I mutter, pulling the tablet closer. “Mum… where did fifty thousand pounds come from?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she says, frowning. “It’s not mine. I rang the bank to report it. They said they’d investigate.”
I stare at her. “Why would you do that? What if they take it back?”
“Well, it isn’t mine to begin with,” she says lightly. “Someone’s obviously made a mistake.”
I click into the transaction. No name. No reference. Just a direct transfer from yesterday.
My stomach twists. “Maybe our luck’s finally turning,” I murmur.
She shrugs. “I doubt it. But it’s a nice thought.”
She closes the iPad and looks at me. “Aren’t you meant to be heading to an interview?”
I nod, grabbing my bag and spinning once so she can inspect my outfit, the whole reason I stopped by in the first place.
“I’ve got three today,” I say. “The rest are over the next few days.”
She smiles at me like she hasn’t in weeks. “Good luck.”
“Wait,” Courtney cries, laughing so hard she nearly snorts. “You got all three?”
I nod, still half in disbelief. “I hadn’t even left the building on the last one when they called and offered me the job.”
“Well, congratulations.” She clinks her shot glass against mine. “About bloody time.”
We knock them back together, both wincing before reaching for our drinks.
“I cancelled the rest of my interviews,” I tell her, washing the burn away with a gulp of beer. “The first one just clicked. The manager’s great. Fun. Only slightly older than me.”
“And does she mind a clumsy, uncoordinated, wildly inexperienced—”
I fling a beer mat at her, laughing. “Shut up. I’m better than I was. Since working for—” I trail off, his name hanging unspoken between us.
Courtney’s smile softens, then fades. “Have you heard from him?” she asks gently.
I shake my head. “No.” I lift my glass, forcing brightness back into my voice. “And I don’t want to talk about him.”
She studies me for a second, then nods.
“Fair enough,” she says, lifting her drink. “Then tonight, we celebrate you.”
I smile, real this time, and clink my glass against hers again.
Because for the first time in weeks, something has gone right. And I need to hold onto that.
I groan, rolling over and groping blindly for my phone as it rings far too loudly for my fragile head.
“Mm?” I mumble.
“I’ve been calling you all morning,” Mum complains, and I wince as her voice drills straight through my skull.
“I was celebrating last night,” I mutter.
I risk peeling one eye open and immediately regret it. Nausea surges. I swallow it back and groan louder.
“Yes, congratulations,” she says. “But listen, the bank called me back. They said there wasn’t a mistake.” My stomach tightens. “The money,” she continues. “It’s mine.”
I roll too fast and tumble straight off the edge of the bed, yelping as I hit the floor with a thud. I stay there, staring up at the ceiling, my heart hammering.
“Not only that,” Mum adds, her voice bubbling with excitement, “but everything’s paid.”
I swallow. “Everything?”
“The mortgage,” she says. “All my debt.”
“Debt?” I repeat weakly.
She sighs. “Stop parroting me. Yes, Leoni, I was in debt up to my eyeballs. But it’s gone. Every last penny. I owe nothing. And I’ve still got all that money sitting in the bank.”
I push myself upright slowly, ignoring the way the room spins.
“Could it have been insurance from Isaac?” I ask quietly.
She scoffs. “You think your brother had life insurance? That doesn’t come with his kind of job.”
Despite everything, a short laugh escapes me. It’s the first time she’s said his name without breaking.
“Fair point,” I murmur.
“And there’s more,” she says. “Jordan’s decided to go back to college.”
My chest lifts. “Really?”
“Yes.” Her voice softens, proudly. “He said if money isn’t a worry anymore, he wants to finish his course.”
Tears sting my eyes. “That’s… perfect,” I whisper. “That’s such good news.”
I hang up a few minutes later and sit there on the edge of the bed, phone still clutched in my hand.
My head aches. My stomach churns. Because I know. I don’t have proof. Not yet. But deep down, I know exactly where that money came from.
Monday comes too quickly.
The weekend disappears in a blur of cheap wine, takeaway cartons, with Mum insisting I eat more, and Jordan laughing louder than I’ve heard him laugh in months.
For two days, we celebrated the small, good things, like interviews, job offers, cleared debts, and second chances.
I almost let myself believe that this is what normal feels like.
Now, standing outside the modest glass-fronted building that houses my new job, my stomach flips with nerves.
This isn’t Baxter Corporation. There’s no marble, no security desk, no men in tailored suits talking into headsets. Just a handwritten sign in the window and a potted plant that looks like it’s seen better days.
I breathe out and push the door open.
“Leoni,” a woman calls immediately, popping her head around a doorway. She’s wearing trainers, a floaty dress, and a smile that reaches her eyes. “Welcome to the mad house.”
She crosses the room and shakes my hand like we’re equals, not employer and employee. Her grip is warm. Normal.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
The office is small, open-plan, with mismatched desks and photos pinned to corkboards. People look up as we pass, smiling, offering genuine hellos instead of obligatory ones.
“This is Sam,” Hannah says, pointing to a guy balancing a phone between his shoulder and ear. “He lives off caffeine and sarcasm.”
“Only before noon,” he replies, grinning.
“And that’s Priya,” Hannah continues. “She keeps us all organised and stops me from signing ridiculous contracts.”
Priya waves. “Welcome to the chaos.”
I find myself smiling. Properly. My shoulders relax without me even noticing.
Hannah leads me into a small kitchen area. “We don’t do hierarchy nonsense here,” she says, filling the kettle. “If you want a coffee, make one. If you don’t, don’t. And if you ever see me hovering around your desk expecting you to fetch me lunch, please stage an intervention.”
She laughs as she lines up mugs, pouring coffee for everyone, including me.
“You own the company,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
“And yet,” she says lightly, handing me a mug, “I still know where the teaspoons live.”
We spend the morning going through systems, clients, and expectations. Everything is explained, nothing assumed. When I make a small mistake, Hannah just shrugs and tells me it’ll stick by the end of the week.
At lunchtime, she perches on the edge of my desk.
“So,” she says, casual but curious. “Your CV mentioned your last role was with the Baxter’s.”
My stomach tightens, but just for a second.
“Yes,” I say carefully. “It was…nice. But intense. Very structured. I realised it wasn’t really the right fit for me.”
She nods, like that makes perfect sense. “Not everyone thrives in that environment.”
“No,” I agree. “I didn’t.”
Hannah hesitates, then adds, “I actually read something this morning in the gossip column, not business news.” She rolls her eyes.
“Apparently his engagement to Nancy Winters was called off after his father’s funeral.
” My pulse stutters, but my face stays neutral.
“That must be rough,” she continues thoughtfully.
“Losing a parent and a relationship all at once. I can’t imagine. ”
“No,” I say quietly. “I can’t either.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile, then stands. “Anyway. None of that matters here. You’re with us now.”
As she walks away, I sit back in my chair and take a sip of coffee.
It tastes better than anything I’ve had in weeks.
WARREN
“You hired a man,” Anthony says, amusement colouring his voice.
I glance up. “Hmm?”
He tips his head toward the desk outside my office, where my new assistant is hunched over the spreadsheets I dumped on him earlier, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Glowing references,” I say absently, already turning back to my inbox. “Ten years in the industry.”
“And yet,” Anthony adds, leaning against the doorframe, “you still have that look.”
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “What look is that?”
“The one that says there’s still a piece missing.”
I scoff quietly. “I think I pay you far too much, but not enough to be my therapist.”