Page 2 of You, Only You

Then I found it. A hairline crack in the fortress.

"In the Henderson case," I said, keeping my voice deliberately casual, "the complaint mentions a paralegal namedCarla Jenkins. She resigned mid-trial... unusual timing. Your HR system shows a disciplinary notation entered for her employee ID that same week." I paused, watching his face. "And then deleted."

His fingers, which had been loosely steepled, went still. The ice-blue eyes sharpened, focusing on me with new intensity. I saw something flash in their depths; surprise, swiftly followed by reassessment. Maybe even a grudging sliver of respect.

The expression vanished behind his mask in a heartbeat. But I'd seen it. I filed it away the way I filed everything: as data. Interesting data.

"HR software glitches are common," he said evenly. "Ms. Jenkins left for personal reasons. You're welcome to interview her directly if you doubt it."

"I intend to." I made a note, fighting to keep my expression neutral even though something in my chest was doing a small, inappropriate victory lap. Get it together, Lindsey. This is an audit, not a competition.

Silence pooled between us again. I was formulating my next question when he leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing softly beneath him. His posture shifted from defensive to something else entirely... unwavering patience. He regarded me not as an auditor anymore, but as a puzzle he'd just solved.

"You're Thomas Ashford's daughter," he said.

The room changed. The polished office, the city skyline, the hum of expensive efficiency, all of it receded into white noise. All that remained were those cold blue eyes and the name he'd just weaponized.

My father.

He'd done his research. Of course he had. He knew about the pension fund. The twelve million dollars. The forty-three families who'd lost their retirement savings. The trial that had made local news for five nauseating weeks.

"Interesting career choice," he added, his gaze dropping to my state bar badge before returning to my face. "Becoming the very thing that destroyed him."

My right hand went flat against the tablet. Fingers splayed, pressing down. I have a tell, I've always had a tell, and I couldn't stop it. Because here's the thing about my father that people who use his name as a weapon never understand: he wasn't a headline. He wasn't just a villain in a cautionary tale. He was also the man who'd taught me to ride a bike in our driveway, holding the seat steady and lying about letting go. He was Sunday morning pancakes that were always slightly burned on one side, and somehow that was the only way I wanted them. He was the person who'd sat with me for hours the night before my SATs, quizzing me on vocabulary words until we were both punchy with exhaustion.

He was also a thief. He was also a liar. Both things were true. They'd always been true, and I'd never figured out how to hold both of them at once.

"My father," I said, and I was proud of how steady my voice emerged, "made choices that hurt people. He has spent the last eight years paying for them in a place where guilt has aged him faster than time should allow."

Will Steele's expression didn't change, but something in his stillness shifted, a quality of attention that felt different from before.

"He's not the villain of a morality play," I continued, holding that glacial stare. "He's a man who convinced himself that borrowing wasn't stealing, that he'd pay it back before anyone noticed, that his family's comfort justified the risk. He was wrong. Devastatingly wrong. And I've built my career on understanding exactly how people like him rationalize their wrongs."

I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping. "I do this work to find the truth, even when powerful people have buried it under layers of privilege and procedure." My eyes locked onto his. "I didn't come here with an agenda, Mr. Steele. I came with a mandate. If the evidence clears you, I'll say so. If it doesn't, I'll say that too."

Something shifted in his gaze. The cold assessment was still there, but beneath it lurked something more complex, maybe a recalibration. I hadn't crumbled at the mention of my father. I hadn't launched into defensive excuses or tearful justifications. I'd absorbed the hit and redirected it, and something in his expression told me he hadn't expected that.

"You don't know anything about me," he said quietly. It wasn't defensive. It was almost... curious.

"I know what the complaints say. I know what the patterns suggest." I held his gaze. "Whether that's the whole truth is what I'm here to find out."

A long moment passed. The afternoon light had shifted, casting his face half in shadow, and I caught something I hadn't noticed before, a faint scar along his jawline, almost hidden by the shadow that was dispelled. Old. Faded. A small imperfection in an otherwise immaculate facade.

I noticed it the way I noticed everything. Instinctively. Filed it the same way.

"Then we understand each other," he said finally, and his voice had dropped to something almost intimate in its quietness.

"Perfectly," I agreed.

He stood, a clear signal that our interview had concluded. I gathered my things with hands that remained miraculously steady, though my heart was hammering against my chest.

"Conference Room B," he said. "The files you've requested will be delivered. I expect you'll be thorough."

"I always am."

I was halfway to the door when his voice stopped me.

"Ms. Ashford."