Chapter 2 - Beneath the Walnut
The executive office was dark, illuminated only by the faint silver ambient glow of the Manhattan skyline spilling through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
It smelled of Travis’s distinctive cologne—black pepper, cedarwood, and expensive leather. It was a smell that had once brought me a sense of warmth and comfort, but now made my stomach turn with a violent, instinctive revulsion.
"Claire, what is this?" I demanded, keeping my voice down to an urgent whisper. "What is going on?"
Claire didn't answer. She rushed over to the massive six-foot solid walnut desk that dominated the center of the room. It was an antique piece we had bought together at an auction in upstate New York eight years ago when Northgate closed its first ten-million-dollar commercial plaza.
She dropped down to her knees beside the kneehole beneath the central drawer.
"Get under there," she whispered frantically, looking up at me with wide, terrified eyes.
I stared at her as if she had lost her mind. "Are you insane? I'm not hiding under my ex-husband's desk like a criminal!"
"Eliza, listen to me!" Claire grabbed the hem of my navy jumpsuit, her hands trembling violently. "Travis is in the private elevator right now with Victor Hale. They just left a closed-door dinner at the Carlyle. They are coming up here to sign the final wire releases for the offshore infrastructure fund."
"Victor Hale?" My brows pulled together. Victor was Northgate’s primary financial adviser and senior trustee—a cold, calculating man who handled the firm's private wealth structures.
"If they see me in this office, I'll tell them I was dropping off night briefs," Claire stammered, her breath coming in fast, shallow gasps. "If they see you here, it's over. Get under the desk right now, or you will never prove what he's done to you!"
Before I could argue further, the soft, melodious chime of the executive private elevator echoed down the short vestibule outside the office.
DING.
The heavy footsteps of two men began approaching the mahogany doors.
Panic seized my chest like a cold fist. I dropped my trash picker onto the thick carpet, dropped to my hands and knees, and scrambled into the dark, narrow recess beneath the massive walnut desk.
Claire pulled the heavy leather executive chair forward, tucking it close to the desk, effectively shielding my lower body from view.
The brass lock clicked.
The double doors swung open, and the bright, warm recessed LED lighting of the office switched on.
I pressed my back flat against the cold interior wooden paneling of the desk, pulling my knees tight against my chest, holding my breath so hard my ribs ached. Through the narrow gap between the leather chair frame and the desk drawer, I could see two pairs of expensive leather dress shoes step onto the Persian rug.
"I don't like the timing, Travis," a sharp, precise voice spoke. It was Victor Hale.
"The timing is precise, Victor," Travis replied calmly.
I heard the distinct sound of ice clinking against glass as Travis walked over to his private bar cabinet in the corner. "The audit committee doesn't meet until November fifteenth. By the time they review the quarterly ledger reconciliations, the funds will have cleared three separate intermediary accounts in Grand Cayman."
"And the principal amount?" Victor asked, his shoes squeaking slightly as he leaned against the front edge of the desk—less than two feet from where my head was resting.
"Three point four million," Travis answered effortlessly, taking a slow sip of his drink. "We already have the authorization."
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My stomach plummeted into an endless, icy void.
Three point four million dollars. That was nearly the exact remaining liquid reserve of the original Northgate Family Trust—the trust that was supposed to fund my children's education and provide for their medical care.
