“My father died four months ago,” Victor said, sitting across from Taylor in his sunlit corner office. “I’m sorry,” Taylor replied softly.

“My father died four months ago,” Victor said, sitting across from Taylor in his sunlit corner office.

“I’m sorry,” Taylor replied softly.

“Thank you.” Something moved behind his dark eyes, then disappeared behind a mask of strict professional focus. “When he passed, I inherited a company that generates nine hundred million dollars a year. I also inherited twelve senior executives who believed I was too young, too inexperienced, and too soft to notice when money went missing.”

Taylor sat up straighter, her fingers lacing together in her lap. “You think the eighteen thousand dollars wasn't an accident?”

“An eighteen-thousand-dollar mistake on one sheet is a typo,” Victor said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “An eighteen-thousand-dollar mistake that repeats across four different operational balance sheets over six months is an extraction method.”

He reached onto his desk and pulled out a thick black binder, laying it open between them.

“For six weeks, I’ve felt like I was drowning in numbers,” Victor admitted, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable. “Every time I ask my chief financial officer about small discrepancies, he tells me I’m misinterpreting agricultural yield variations. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't have the proof. And then you walked into my conference room and found the discrepancy in thirty seconds.”

Taylor looked down at the binder. Pages of complex ledger entries, shipping manifests, and tax schedules filled the sight. To most people, it was an overwhelming mountain of jargon. To her, it was a language—a puzzle waiting to be solved.

“Who prepares the distribution summaries?” Taylor asked, her analytical instinct completely pushing aside the humiliation she had felt just twenty minutes prior.

“Our head of internal audit, Richard Sterling,” Victor answered. “He’s been with Anderson Harvest Group for twenty-two years. He was my father’s most trusted advisor.”

Taylor pulled the binder toward herself. She ran her index finger down the long column of numbers, her sharp eyes scanning line items with practiced speed.

“It’s not just eighteen thousand, Mr. Anderson,” Taylor murmured, her voice dropping into a tense whisper.

Victor froze. “What do you mean?”

“Look at the vendor code for North Orchard shipping,” Taylor pointed out, leaning over the table. “The invoice numbers end in an odd-numbered sequence for January and February. But in March, the sequence changes to a dual-tier ledger system. If this same percentage offset was applied across all twelve regional distribution hubs...”

She stopped, grabbing a pen from his desk and rapidly scribbling calculations on a legal pad.

Victor watched her, his heart hammering against his ribs. The worn sleeve of her mother's hand-repaired jacket brushed against his cuff, but he didn't care about her clothes. He saw absolute, brilliant competence.

Taylor looked up, her face pale. “It’s not eighteen thousand dollars, Mr. Anderson. Over the last four months, someone has been systematically siphoning out small, unnoticeable percentages from every hub. The total missing isn't eighteen thousand.”

“How much is it?” Victor asked, his jaw tightening.

“It’s closer to four point two million dollars.”

Silence fell over the massive office, heavy and suffocating. Outside, miles of green orchards stretched out under the bright California sun, but inside, a silent war had just been declared.

Victor stood up slowly, looking out the window, then turned back to Taylor.

“Miss Nelson,” Victor said, his tone resolute. “Ten minutes ago, you were interviewing for a junior administrative position that pays forty thousand a year. I’m offering you a new position, starting today. Special Financial Investigator to the CEO. Starting salary: one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, full benefits, and an endless supply of coffee.”

Taylor’s breath caught in her throat. Her mind raced to her mother sitting at the kitchen table, sewing clothes by candlelight to save on electricity. She thought of their unpaid rent, her sister’s tuition, and the years of being looked down upon by people like Melissa Crane.

“Under one condition, Mr. Anderson,” Taylor said, standing up to meet his gaze.

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Name it.”

“I don't work from an executive suite,” she said firmly. “If Richard Sterling or anyone else knows I’m auditing them, the evidence will disappear before sunset. Put me in a cubicle in the basement accounting department. Let everyone think I’m just a low-level clerk.”