Someone had transformed charity invoices into a coded message system.
Elara looked at Roman.
“Who can approve these transfers?”
“Six people.”
“You?”
“No.”
“Your finance director?”
“Yes.”
“Your security director?”
“Yes.”
“Your relatives?”
He was silent for a moment.
“My uncle Gabriel.”
The name was familiar. Gabriel Calder had served as the company’s legal strategist for more than three decades. Newspaper profiles described him as Roman’s mentor, adviser, and substitute father.
Elara returned to the documents.
“You need an independent review.”
“I need the person responsible to believe I have not discovered the system.”
“And where do I fit?”
“The photograph has made you valuable.”
“To whom?”
“To anyone who thinks hurting you will influence me.”
“It will not.”
Roman looked directly at her.
“They do not know that.”
The answer should have relieved her.
Instead, it irritated her.
“What are you proposing?”
“Continue the engagement story.”
“No.”
“Appear with me publicly for twelve days. Stay in a secured residence. Complete your analysis of the payments.”
“You want to use me as bait.”
“I want to keep you where I can protect you.”
“You could publicly deny the engagement.”
“That would make you appear disposable.”
“I am disposable to you.”
Roman’s expression hardened.
“Disposable people are rarely photographed, followed, robbed, and investigated before breakfast.”
“That does not make me your fiancée.”
“No. Your agreement would make you my fiancée.”
“Absolutely not.”
The sedan slowed outside Elara’s office building.
Police cars stood near the entrance.
A fire alarm flashed above the door.
Smoke stained one of the upper-floor windows.
Elara leaned toward the glass.
“What happened?”
Mateo spoke from the front seat.
“A fire started in the records room ten minutes ago.”
Her audit files had been stored in that room.
Roman watched her absorb the meaning.
“Whoever is responsible has stopped trying to hide the fraud,” he said. “Now they are eliminating the evidence.”
Elara touched the silver clutch.
“Not all of it.”
His gaze dropped to her hand.
“You still have the files.”
“I have enough.”
“Then you are in greater danger than I believed.”
She turned toward him.
“Twelve days?”
“Twelve.”
“I keep my phone.”
“It will be secured.”
“I speak to Nia whenever I choose.”
“With protection nearby.”
“No one searches my belongings.”
“If the contents threaten my people, I will search them myself.”
“That is not acceptable.”
“It is the only condition on which I will compromise.”
Elara considered the burning office.
She considered Everett reaching for her purse.
She considered the photographer who had died hours after capturing their kiss.
“Separate bedrooms,” she said.
Roman’s face did not change.
“Naturally.”
“And I decide what I wear.”
“Within reason.”
“There will be no discussion of my clothes.”
“Then do not wear anything that prevents you from running.”
Elara held out her hand.
“Twelve days.”
Roman looked at it before taking it.
His hand was warm.
His grip was careful.
“Welcome to the family,” he said.
“I already regret it.”
“You have excellent instincts.”
The Calder residence stood above the Pacific on a stretch of coastline hidden behind stone walls and wind-shaped cypress trees.
Elara had expected gold, marble, and theatrical displays of wealth.
Instead, the house was built from dark wood, pale stone, and enormous windows facing the ocean. It was elegant but severe, like a place designed by someone who valued survival more than comfort.
Armed guards patrolled the grounds.
Cameras covered every approach.
Inside, the rooms were almost silent.
Roman’s younger sister, Isabelle, had once lived there.
Elara learned this from a portrait in the library.
Isabelle stood beside Roman on a sailboat, laughing into the wind. Roman looked younger and less guarded, one arm around her shoulders.
A small brass plate beneath the photograph stated that she had died four years earlier.
“She was twenty-eight,” Roman said from the doorway.
Elara turned.
“I was not trying to pry.”
“You are an auditor. Prying is your profession.”
“What happened to her?”
“Her car went over a coastal barrier.”
“An accident?”
“No.”
He did not elaborate.
Elara looked again at the portrait.
“Was anyone convicted?”
“Three men admitted responsibility.”
“Did they survive long enough to face trial?”
Roman’s expression supplied the answer.
During the first three days, they appeared together at a restaurant opening, a charity luncheon, and a harbor commission reception.
Roman played the devoted fiancé with frightening skill.
His hand rested naturally at Elara’s waist whenever cameras were nearby. He remembered that she disliked sweet wine and that she drank coffee without sugar. He listened when she spoke, which made the performance more convincing than extravagant gifts ever could.