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

By nine o'clock the following morning, Taylor sat at a cramped grey desk in the basement level of the Anderson Harvest Group headquarters.

The basement smelled of old paper, industrial floor cleaner, and stale drip coffee. Unlike the sleek glass offices on the fourth floor where corporate recruiters mocked candidates, the basement was where the real work happened. Dozens of underpaid clerks sat under buzzing fluorescent lights, staring at glowing computer screens.

Word had spread quickly through the building about the girl in the cheap suit.

Brooke Keller, the younger recruiter who had laughed at Taylor’s shoes yesterday, walked down the basement aisle carrying a stack of dusty manila folders. She dropped them onto Taylor’s desk with a loud, deliberate thud.

“Mr. Anderson said you were hired for temporary data entry,” Brooke said, her voice dripping with condensation. She leaned over, eyeing Taylor’s simple cotton blouse. “Don't get comfortable, Taylor. People like you don't last long in a corporate ecosystem like this. Just enter the numbers and don't touch anything you’re not supposed to.”

Taylor didn't argue. She didn't glare. She simply smiled politely. “Thank you, Brooke. I’ll make sure every digit is exactly where it belongs.”

Brooke scoffed, turning on her heel and strutting back toward the elevator in her designer heels.

The moment the elevator doors closed, Taylor pulled the top folder toward her.

She opened the system software Victor had quietly authorized for her overnight. While the rest of the basement staff processed routine invoices, Taylor began pulling deep background files on Richard Sterling, the chief internal auditor.

Hours passed. Taylor barely touched her coffee. Her mind was hyper-focused, weaving through complex networks of shell corporations, offshore vendor accounts, and manipulated inventory logs.

At two in the afternoon, a shadow fell across her desk.

Taylor looked up. Standing before her was a man in his late fifties. He wore a crisp tailored grey suit, an expensive gold watch, and had slicked-back white hair. His face was pleasant, but his pale eyes were cold and calculating.

Richard Sterling.

“You must be the new temp,” Richard said, his voice surprisingly warm, like a grandfather offering candy. “Taylor Nelson, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Taylor said, pulling on a nervous, inexperienced expression. She quickly tucked her legal pad under a pile of invoices. “Mr. Sterling, right?”

“That’s me,” Richard smiled, leaning against her cubicle wall. “I heard about your interview yesterday. Broke the recruiters' hearts by spotting a math typo on a draft sheet, didn't you?”

“It was just a lucky guess, sir,” Taylor lied smoothly, ducking her head with practiced modesty. “I was just trying to impress them.”

Richard’s cold eyes studied her face, scanning her cheap clothes, her simple hair, and the nervous way she gripped her pen. He evidently concluded what most wealthy executives concluded about people like Taylor: she was harmless, desperate, and easily intimidated.

“Well, Taylor, around here, we prefer people who stick to their assigned duties,” Richard said, his tone softening into a gentle warning. “The upper floors handle the big picture. Down here, we just key in the data. We wouldn't want a bright young girl making trouble for herself before her first paycheck clears, would we?”

“No, sir,” Taylor whispered, lowering her eyes. “Of course not.”

“Good girl,” Richard said, patting the edge of her desk before walking away toward the executive elevator.

Taylor watched him leave. The moment he disappeared, her nervous demeanor evaporated.

She pulled out her legal pad. Under Richard’s name, she had just cross-referenced a hidden bank account registered in the Cayman Islands under the name Sterling Ag-Logistics.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text message from Victor: