E L A R A

When I step onto the executive floor, I know immediately that something has detonated. It’s not just tension. It’s not even fear.  It’s the silence that people try to hide but can’t. The kind that drags across the hallway like a blade.

Two assistants standing by the copier go white when they see me. A manager pretends he didn’t just slam his laptop shut. Someone whispers my name, then stops when I glance over. It hits me like a cold slap: They’re not just scared. They’re scared of me. Or what I represent. Or what I’m connected to. And Adrian still hasn’t answered me.

I walk faster, too fast toward his office. I don’t care who stares. The door is closed. Not just closed but locked. Blinds shut. That horrible, suffocating “don’t come in” energy leaking under the gap. Two security officers stand guard. Not Ethan. Strangers.

“Is he inside?” I ask. My voice sounds thinner than I want it to. A glance between them. One clears his throat. “Mr. Valcrosse asked not to be disturbed.” Asked. Not ordered. Adrian doesn’t ask for space. He demands it, slices it out of the air with a tone that makes rooms freeze. This soft phrasing? It feels like grief wearing a suit.

“Is he okay?” I try again.

“We… don’t know, Dr. Quinn.”

My stomach knots so tight I feel it in my spine. I almost press my palm to the door. Almost whispering his name like that could fix anything. But instead I turn because standing here isn’t helping him. I need information. I need context. I need something solid to grab before this whole building implodes on him.

And that’s when I see it: an abandoned workstation down the hall, screen blinking red.
Unauthorized payroll access attempt.
Override code: Isabella Valcrosse. Ice hits the center of my chest. What the hell was Adrian’s mother doing?

I shouldn’t touch the workstation. I know that.  Every hospital drilled this into me: never poke something that looks like it wants to bite. But this isn’t a hospital. And nothing about today feels survivable unless I understand what’s circling Adrian’s throat.

So I sat. The chair is still warm. Whoever left was in a hurry. The system is already unlocked, some blessing or curse and the screen blinks a second time:  Flagged account entry. Unauthorized. Reconcile or dismiss.

I click reconcile. Of course I do. Apparently I left my sense of self-preservation on the ferry months ago. At first it looks like numbers. Just rows. Columns. Payroll strings.
Then something shifts into place in my brain.

These aren’t random transactions.  They’re supplemental payments. Regular. Quiet. Hidden under coded expense lines that look like landscaping supplies and linen overflow. I scroll faster.

It’s staff.  Housekeeping. Kitchen. Night security. Dock workers. Asha’s name.. God, Asha’s name is right there, buried like a secret. Small sums. Not hush money. Not bribery.  Protection.

My throat gets tight. I realize I’m gripping the desk hard enough my knuckles ache. Isabella wasn’t cutting corners. She was filling them. She’s been covering understaffed wages. Emergency overtime. Unapproved medical leave.  All the things corporate never signs off on because it “hurts the quarterlies.” And she hid it. Hide it well.

The why hits me before the numbers finish loading: Because if the board saw these gaps, they’d blame Adrian.  And if they saw her fixing them in secret, they’d call it misconduct. Grounds for removal. Succession breach. A tremor runs through my hands. Because this isn’t corruption.  It’s compassion.

And I’m staring at proof the board will twist into a knife the second they smell blood. “God, Isabella,” I whisper. “What were you protecting? And why did someone want me to find this?” A chill prickles my arms.  Because someone did.  Someone led me here.

I print the files before I can stop myself. The machine whirs, loud, too loud in this tomb-quiet hallway and each sheet lands in the tray like a countdown ticking toward disaster. My fingertips shake when I gather the papers, edges sharp enough to cut.

The truth is a weight in my hands. Heavy. Dangerous. Because if I bring this to the board, I expose Isabella. If I hide it, I betray every staff member she protects. And Adrian.. God. What will this do to him?

He’s already spiraling behind a locked door, drowning in whatever storm hit him this morning. Now this? Now this on top of everything else? I press the papers to my chest, like maybe holding them closer will make the choice easier. It doesn’t. It just makes the ache worse.

Everything in me wants to run to his office, bang on the door, force him to look at me, hear me, let me in. But that won’t fix the monster outside. The photo. The shell corporation. The enemy with Adrian’s kingdom in his teeth.

If I want to save him, I need to understand the battlefield. And right now?  These receipts are a fuse aimed directly at the Valcrosse throne. My breath stutters. I close my eyes, just for a second.

“You didn’t do this to hurt him,” I whisper to the papers. “You did it because no one else would.” I don’t know if I’m talking to Isabella… or myself. Someone coughs behind me. I nearly dropped the files. A junior accountant stands frozen, eyes flicking from the printouts to my face. He looks like he’s seen an intruder in the vault.

“I wasn’t here,” he whispers, and hurries away. That’s how I know I have to move. Now. Before someone slams another door in my face. I tuck the papers under my arm and head for the boardroom. If they want a war?  They’re going to have to look me in the eye first.

The walk to the boardroom feels like the world narrowing around me, walls inching closer, air thinning, footsteps echoing like I’m marching toward a verdict I’m not ready to hear.

People stare. Not openly, God forbid anyone in this building be honest but in sideways flicks of the eyes, in half-swallowed whispers. They know something. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. But the energy is wrong, sour, like the whole floor is holding its breath.

I pass Marina’s office. Her door is shut, blinds drawn, voices muffled behind the glass. A flash of Godfrey’s name hits my memory.. Adrian said he got the photo. My stomach twists. I keep walking.

The closer I get to the boardroom, the colder the floor feels under my shoes, like the building itself is warning me to turn around. Save myself. Let someone else bleed for this family today. But I see Asha at the end of the hall, eyes exhausted, worry buried under professionalism and I remember why I’m here. Why I can’t walk away.

Someone protected her. And the others. Someone fought for them quietly while the board counted pennies and smiled at profit charts. Isabella did this because compassion never makes a quarterly report.

My throat tightens. I grip the folder harder. At the boardroom doors, my heart stutters once, hard. Then I push them open.

Every head turns the moment I step inside.  Half the board. Marina. Godfrey. A cluster of executives with stiff shoulders and guilt-shaped eyes. No Adrian. That absence hits harder than any glare in the room.

“Dr. Quinn,” Marina says, smooth as poison. “We weren’t expecting..”

“I imagine there’s a lot you weren’t expecting today.”  My voice comes out steadier than I feel. My fingers tremble only once as I drop the stack of papers onto the table. The slap of paper on wood cuts through the entire room.

“What is this?” Godfrey demands, already annoyed.

“Proof,” I say. “Something you’re pretending doesn’t exist.” I start sliding pages toward them. Payroll strings, coded transactions, emergency overtime packages buried under fake invoice names. I watch their faces shift, confusion, curiosity, then something uglier.

“These,” I continue, “are supplemental payments made to underpaid staff across Seraphine. Hidden carefully under expense codes so the board wouldn’t cut them.”

Marina’s mouth tightens. “That’s an allegation, Dr. Quinn.”

“No,” I say, leaning forward. “It’s math. Your system flagged an unauthorized attempt to erase it this morning. Using Isabella Valcrosse’s override code.” A ripple moves through the table like heat over sand.

“She was covering the gaps you refused to fix,” I add, voice roughening. “Protecting your workers when you wouldn’t authorize staffing or emergency compensation.”

“That’s misconduct,” someone whispers.

“That’s humanity,” I snapped. Godfrey slams a hand on the table. “This is grounds for removal, you realize that?”

The words hit me like a blow. Removal. Isabella. Adrian. The crown of the ocean ripped out of their hands.

“If you’re going to destroy her for protecting people,” I say, shaking now but refusing to look away, “then say it to my face. Say that kindness is a crime in this dynasty.” No one breathes.

The explosion doesn’t come loud.  It comes quiet, sharp whispers, clipped breaths, stiffening shoulders. The room fractures right down the middle.

“Misconduct. Financial manipulation,” one side mutters, gathering around Godfrey like vultures scenting something warm and dying.

“She protected her staff,” another group argues, softer but fierce. “This board has ignored operational shortages for years.”

“This isn’t protection, it’s fraud.”

“It’s compassion.”

“It’s disqualifying.”

“It’s responsible leadership.” Every word is another crack in the table between them. Marina stands there, watching the split like she’s choosing which ship to jump onto before they both sink. Her eyes flick toward me like I’m the match that started the fire.

“This cannot fall on Adrian,” someone murmurs.

“Oh, it will,” Godfrey hisses. “This is his house. His island. His liability.” My blood goes cold.

“This isn’t about Isabella,” he continues. “This is about succession.” Succession.
The word hangs in the air like a decree. And then..

“We move to vote,” a board member says.
“On interim leadership of Seraphine.” My throat clenches.  They’re doing it. They’re actually doing it.

“And where is Adrian?” someone asks sharply. Silence. Because no one knows.
Because someone made sure he wouldn’t be here to fight. Because the coup has already started.