I find excuses to be on the executive floor three times before lunch. Each time, Mattaniah is at his desk with his head down and his cheeks burning, radiating the kind of forced focus that tells me he's counting the minutes until five o'clock. Richard is in meetings all morning, which is the only reason I'm not more concerned. The moment that man gets a clear look at how thoroughly his sons have claimed the Omega he's been circling, things will escalate in ways none of us are ready for.
Dominic texts me at noon. I'm at my desk eating a sandwich I can't taste, scrolling through the supplier contract I'm supposed to be reviewing.
How is he?
I set the sandwich down and type back.Embarrassed. Flushed. Trying to disappear into his cubicle.
Should I come up?
No. Your scent will make it worse. Let him get through the day.
A pause long enough that I pick the sandwich back up. Then:I hate this.
I know.
I'm back to the supplier contract, forcing myself to focus on delivery timelines instead of the Omega three floors above me, when the call comes through.
"Mr. Hale, there's a woman in the lobby claiming to be Mrs. Hale. She's requesting executive floor access."
I set my pen down. "Describe her."
"Mid-forties, dark hair, expensive dress. Says she's Mr. Richard Hale's wife and she needs to speak with him immediately about a household matter."
Mattaniah's mother.
"Don't let her up. I'll be down in five minutes."
The elevator ride gives me time to compose the version of myself I'll need for this conversation. Dominic calls it my "shark face," the cold, dismissive Amos who sits in board meetings and watches men twice his age squirm under questions they can't answer.
She's standing near the security desk when the elevator doors open, her posture radiating a manufactured confidence I've seen Mattaniah perform a hundred times. The difference is that Mattaniah's armor has cracks. Hers looks seamless until you know where to press.
"Mrs. Hale." I cross the lobby toward her with my hands in my pockets and my expression pleasant and utterly empty. "I don't believe we've truly had a moment so spend together since we met."
"Amos, let’s not pretend, here, okay?" Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You’re the accountant and I know all about you, okay?"
"Senior Forensic Accountant, actually. And you're not Mrs. Hale."
The smile freezes. "Excuse me?"
"You're not Mrs. Hale. You're not married to Richard. You're not on any company accounts, you're not listed on building access, and you have no executive privileges here." I stop three feet in front of her, close enough to have a conversation, far enough to make her feel the distance. "You're a guest in Richard's home."
"I'm his partner. We live together."
"Do you?" I tilt my head. "When was the last time you were in the same room with him for more than a random dinner date? When was the last time he spoke to you directly instead of through the household staff?"
Her face goes tight because there isn't an answer.
"Richard has dinner meetings six nights a week." I keep my voice conversational, the tone I use when presenting data that I know will upset the person hearing it. "He leaves for the office at six in the morning and doesn't return until nine at night. On weekends he golfs with board members or attends charity functions where plus-ones aren't invited." I let that settle. "You've been living in his house for almost three weeks. How many actual conversations have you had with the man?"
"That's none of your business."
"It becomes my business when you show up at my workplace claiming a status you don't have." I gesture toward the door. "Security will call you a car. If you need to reach Richard, I suggest going through his assistant like everyone else."
Her composure cracks just enough for me to see the fear underneath. She's realizing, perhaps for the first time, that the position she thought she'd secured doesn't actually exist.
"Mattaniah works here." Her voice goes sharp. "I have every right to—"
"Your son is an employee of Hale Industries. If you need to contact him, you can call his personal phone." I nod tothe security guards. "Gentlemen, please escort Mrs..." I pause deliberately. "I'm sorry, I don't actually know your surname. Please escort this woman to the curb."
