Chapter 3 - The Crimson Ledger
Three weeks passed inside the Kensington penthouse, transforming the cold glass fortress into something unrecognizable.
Titan was making a miraculous recovery. Under Willa's constant care, the silver Mastiff had gained fifteen pounds, his fur regaining its lustrous shine, his energy returning as he trotted after Willa from room to room.
But Titan wasn't the only one changing.
Willa had refused to sit idle in luxury. She began managing the penthouse's internal operations—coordinating with the private chefs, organizing Jared’s extensive personal library, and ensuring the security staff had proper schedules. She wore comfortable wool sweaters and silk trousers provided by Jared’s personal tailor, her skin regaining its healthy glow, the dark circles under her eyes fading away completely.
And then there was Jared.
The feared syndicate boss, who used to spend eighteen hours a day in silent isolation, now found reasons to return to the penthouse by 5:00 p.m. Every evening, he sat at the dining table while Willa ate dinner, listening to her talk about Titan’s progress, her passion for animal rehabilitation, and her dream of opening a legitimate rescue shelter.
For the first time in ten years, Jared laughed. It was a low, warm sound that made Willa’s heart flutter in a way she couldn't quite control.
On a rainy Tuesday night, while Titan was sleeping by the fireplace, Willa walked into Jared’s private study to return a book on naval history she had borrowed.
The study was dark, illuminated only by the glow of three computer monitors on his massive oak desk. Jared was sitting in his leather executive chair, his tie undone, staring at a set of financial ledgers with an expression of intense, dark frustration.
"You're working late," Willa said softly, setting the book on the side table.
Jared looked up, his sharp features softening instantly as he saw her standing in the doorway. "Just settling some internal accounts. Miles is handling a dispute at the docks."
Willa stepped closer to the desk, her eyes falling on a printed financial spreadsheet on the desk. Without meaning to, her eyes scanned the numbers—years of working minimum-wage jobs had made her exceptionally fast at mental math.
"That total is wrong," Willa said, pointing a slender finger at the bottom column.
Jared blinked, looking at the paper, then at her. "What?"
"The third column," Willa explained, leaning over the desk, her subtle lavender scent washing over him. "The freight routing tax is calculated at six percent, but the subtotal reflects eight point five percent. Over four quarters, someone has been skimming nearly four hundred thousand dollars from your shipping logistics."
Jared stared at the numbers, then quickly pulled up the raw data on his monitor. He recalculated the figures—and realized she was completely right.
A dark, dangerous coldness returned to Jared’s eyes, but it wasn't directed at her. "This ledger was audited by Marco Rossi... my chief financial officer."
"Someone is lying to you, Jared," Willa said softly, using his first name naturally.
Jared stood up slowly from his chair. He looked at the spreadsheet, then stepped around the desk until he was standing inches from Willa. He reached out his hand, his large, warm fingers gently cupping her jawline, his thumb resting against her cheekbone.
"You are incredible, Willa Thornton," Jared murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he had tried to suppress for weeks. "You heal my dog, you fix my house, and now you uncover a snake in my inner circle."
Willa’s breath caught in her throat. She looked up into his silver eyes, feeling the intense, magnetic pull between them. She didn't pull away from his touch. Instead, she leaned into his palm slightly, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"I just... I care about what happens to this house," Willa whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of rain against the glass.
"This house is yours, Willa," Jared said fiercely, his hand moving down to wrap gently around the back of her neck, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer. "Everything in it. Everything I own. It’s all yours if you want it."
May you like
Before Willa could answer, the study door flew open.
Miles rushed into the room, his face pale, his coat soaked with rain. "Boss! We have a breach at the lower garage! Marco Rossi just fled the building—and he brought company!"
