Lies Between Us

Chapter Five

Rayna’s Pov

Just two days ago I stepped into the world of Kane Enterprises, and already I’m settled behind Curry’s imposing desk. It feels absurd how easily everything fell into place. One moment I was in a crisp interview suit, and the next I’m in this chair, enjoying all the access that comes with being his secretary. On paper it might look like luck or coincidence, but in truth I arranged it carefully.

I didn’t land this role by chance. I engineered it. Undermined the last secretary, manipulated the vacancy, positioned myself as the inevitable replacement. By the time I walked through the door, the decision had already been made.

Now I tidy the stack of files at the corner of his desk and catch my reflection in the glossy surface. Impeccable doesn’t begin to cover it. My blouse is crisply ironed, my pencil skirt hugging perfectly, and even my stilettos click precisely on the polished floor. I project confidence: shoulders squared, chin high. But inwardly I’m vigilant, every sense on edge.

Being Curry’s secretary means privileges and access. I have keycard permissions to every corner of this building, and I can tap into networks others only dream of. Most importantly, I have access to Curry’s world—his email inbox, his financial spreadsheets, every file he thinks is secure. My fingers itch to explore. I didn’t take this job to fetch his coffee; I came looking for secrets.

Just past noon. I came to notice that most of the other floors are quiet, everyone off to lunch or meetings. Perfect. I go back to his office and slip into the leather chair behind Curry’s desk. The office is almost silent except for the hum of the monitors and a distant murmur down the hallway.

I power on the computer. Instantly the dual monitors bloom with light: the Kane Enterprises logo against an ocean-blue background. I enter the password Curry gave me, and desktop icons pop up. Folders like Finance, Executive, Personnel, Projects.

Careful to seem completely at ease, I click on Finance. It’s a labyrinth of subfolders, budgets, payroll, tax records, invoices. I double-click a spreadsheet labeled Kane Enterprises – Q2 Accounts. Numbers flood the screen. Project budgets, payroll expenses, vendor totals—everything looks routine at first.

Slowly, I dig deeper. Footnotes and hidden cells scroll by. Then one entry catches my eye: a string of small, recurring transactions to an offshore account with a name I don’t recognize. Taken alone, each transaction is tiny—small enough to slip by unnoticed. Together, a pattern emerges: hundreds of mini-transfers to the same ghost company. My chest tightens.

Leaning forward, I double-click one suspicious line. A PDF invoice pops open: “Pacific Rim Holdings,” with an address in the British Virgin Islands. Memo line: “Consulting services rendered.” There’s no report, no explanation, no approval signature—nothing in the files to justify this payment. I suppress a shiver. No one on the project team recalls hiring any “consultants” from BVI.

Pulse quickening, I copy the account number into a new analysis sheet and search for matches. Instantly, more hits appear: Pacific Rim Holdings again, and another name—“Silver Ocean Management.” Both are ghost accounts, siphoning money out of various budgets. Tiny leaks in a dam.

I swallow hard. Hidden in plain sight are slivers of dirty money, tiny drains bleeding the company’s funds. If Curry is aware of this, he can always say he didn’t see the details. If not, someone above him is skimming from the accounts.

A cold certainty settles in my chest: this is exactly what I came to find. I remember why I’m here. No backing out now.

I’m so absorbed in the ledgers that I almost miss the change in the air.

Then I feel it—a presence. The faint click of leather on marble, a subtle scent of cologne. Suddenly I realize I’m not alone.

I freeze.

The spreadsheet is still open on the screen, but one hand twitches to hit the hotkey that would close it. There isn’t enough time. I slide forward, fingers on the keyboard, mimicking a quick document save. The screen blurs to a neutral desktop in a smooth motion, as if I’d finished typing a memo. Just as I move, the chair creaks.

Standing in the doorway is Curry himself. Hands loosely clasped behind his back. His expression is calm, inscrutable, but his eyes are sharp, curious.

For a heartbeat, I’m sure I’ve been caught. My heart races so fast I can barely hear it. A bead of cold sweat runs down my spine.

“Everything going smoothly?” he asks, voice even, casual. As if he’s not wondering why the finance report just closed so abruptly.

I force a tight smile and exhale. “Yes, everything’s fine, Mr. Curry,” I say smoothly, sounding more confident than I feel.

He steps fully into the office, closing the door behind him. The afternoon light casts his shadow across my desk. He stands just past the edge of the table , looking at me, studying me. Neither of us says anything at first.

Then, completely unexpectedly, he tilts his head and asks, “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

My breath catches. Do I—plans for tonight? Why is he asking me that?

Panic surges first. It’s like a jolt of electricity through my body. I swallow, voice finding a falter. “I—I don’t, uh, have anything set yet.”

He nods slowly, as if that was the only answer he expected. A faint smile curves his lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it softens his expression.

In that split second, confusion swirls through me. He just asked me out on a date. My heart stutters. Had I really heard that right?

Somehow, he doesn’t seem angry or suspicious. He doesn’t scold me for being in his office. Instead his voice is strangely calm. “Good,” he says. “I was thinking of grabbing dinner and a drink. My treat, of course. This job is demanding, and it’s only fair you enjoy something more than spreadsheets tonight.”

I’m sure my mouth is open, a mix of shock and nerves. My cheeks flush hot. The sound of his voice—actually inviting me—sends a tiny thrill down my spine.

A part of me wants to laugh, to cover for this absurd moment. Another part is furious at myself: how did I let a boss’s question knock me off my guard like this?

And yet... and yet...

His question lingers in the air: Plans for tonight.

I manage a breath and whisper, “I—I’ll let you know.”

He gives me a patient nod and a gentle smile, then turns and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him.

I stand motionless, mind racing. On one side, panic sears through me. If this is some trap, a test of my composure, I can’t let it show. On the other side, suspicion prickles at me—why is he being so casual, so kind? Is he truly asking me out, or is there a catch?

In the middle of all that, something else stirs.

My heart is hammering in my throat, and as absurd as it feels, there’s a tiny warmth in my chest at the thought of spending time with him outside work. It’s completely inappropriate, and I try to deny it. But the truth bubbles up all the same. His voice, the way he’s standing there looking at me—it’s disarming.