Pages of statements and itemized ledgers. At first, it looks like standard firm accounting—a quarterly breakdown or financial audit—but then I catch the highlighted charges.
Recurring. Bimonthly. Labeled asConsulting Services.
My brows furrow.
Wait. I know this.
“This is nothing,” I start, waving the page like I’m bored. “You’re wasting everyone’s time.”
Corrine folds her hands like a queen ready to sentence someone to death. “Before you lie, Dante, let me spare you the embarrassment. I already know what they are.”
I freeze for a fraction of a second, confused what she is playing at.
She sees it. Smiles.
“If you’re willing to admit it now,” she purrs, “we can perhaps avoid a formal inquiry and come to a resolution the board will find... reasonable.”
I lean back in my chair, voice low and sharp. “If you know what they are, Corrine, then do enlighten me. Go ahead. Make your case.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
“You’ve been funneling firm money to sex workers,” she says, dropping the words like poison into the center of the room. “Paying them monthly under fabricated job titles. ‘Consulting services.’ Like no one would put it together.”
The room goes dead silent.
A beat.
Then I laugh. Sharp, surprised, genuine.
“That’s your play?” I shake my head. “You think I’m stupid enough to do something that reckless?”
But then I flip the page.
And my laughter dies.
Because the next page isn’t a payment log.
It’s a profile.
A site I recognize immediately—one of those platforms where people host explicit content, post their own videos, pictures, offer private sessions behind paywalls. And there’s no mistaking the man in the previews.
Teddy.
Shirtless in one. Pantsless in another. On his knees in a third.
My jaw tightens. Somehow I know exactly where this is going to go.
Corrine’s voice slithers in. “As you can see, Mr. Marchesi has been funding this young man for nearly a year. Tuition by day. Sexual favors by night.”
I close the folder calmly. “So what? The kid’s making money in a way you don’t approve of. Doesn’t mean he’s not worthy of a college degree.”
“Dante,” she sighs like she pities me. “You’ve been paying him for sexual gratification—on company funds. That’s embezzlement. Prostitution. Pick one.”
I stand. “You don’t get to stand on a soapbox and moralize, Corrine. You’ve spent your entire career stepping on the backs of better people.”
Her eyes narrow, but just as I open my mouth to continue, the door opens.
And Grant walks in.
