THE PRICE OF HIS NAME

CHAPTER TWO: SUMMONS

Mara was waiting at my desk when I hung up. She pulled a chair close and sat without asking, her body language suggesting she'd been preparing for this conversation.

"Please tell me that wasn't what I think it was," she said.

"The executive office called me upstairs."

"Why?"

"They didn't say."

She pulled the chair even closer and lowered her voice to something barely above a whisper. Around us, the office continued its normal functions. People worked. Phones rang. No one was paying attention to our corner of the floor.

"You're about to meet Adrian Voss, and you have a missing folder and a threatening text message on your phone. That's not a coincidence."

"I know."

"So what are you going to do?"

I leaned back in my chair, trying to think through the possibilities. My brain felt like it was moving through water. Everything seemed slower. Everything seemed more serious.

"What exactly am I supposed to do? Deny everything? Confess to things I didn't do? I found irregularities in financial records. That's my job."

"Your job is to report irregularities to your supervisor. You didn't do that. You kept digging. Then someone threatened you. Then your evidence disappeared."

I looked at my empty desktop. The files were gone. The evidence was gone. All I had left was the screenshots I'd sent to my personal email and the memory of patterns that no longer existed in any official system.

"So if I tell Adrian that, he's going to think I'm covering for whoever took my files," I said.

"Probably."

"And if I don't tell him, I'm going to look like I'm hiding something."

"Definitely."

Mara stood and started pacing. She did this when she was anxious. Small circles. Agitated. Moving between my cubicle and hers like she was trying to burn off nervous energy.

"Listen to me," she said. "Don't volunteer information. Answer his questions. Don't elaborate. And if he asks anything you don't understand, ask him to clarify instead of guessing."

"He's not going to torture me, Mara."

"No. But he's going to be trying to figure out if you're a threat or an asset. Those are your two options here. Act accordingly."

"What if I'm neither?"

"Then you're expendable."

She didn't say it unkindly. Just as a fact. The kind of fact you had to acknowledge when you worked in corporate environments where people with money made decisions about people without it.

I checked the time. 3:30. Thirty minutes before I needed to be on the forty-second floor.

"Call me after, okay? Don't just disappear," Mara said.

"I will."

But we both knew that if Adrian Voss decided I was a liability, I might not have the opportunity to call anyone. I might not have the opportunity to do anything except cooperate with whatever came next.

The walk to the elevator felt longer than usual. The building's architecture seemed to shift around me, hallways extending, ceilings rising. By the time I reached the elevator bank, I felt like I'd walked through an entire separate building.

The elevator ride up to the forty-second floor took approximately forever. The building seemed to get quieter the higher I went, as if the money was pressing down from above and compressing all the noise beneath it. I passed through floors that existed in hushed tones, where transactions worth millions happened with a few keyboard clicks and the kind of conversations that changed lives.

By the time I reached the executive level, I could barely hear anything except my own heartbeat and the soft ding of the elevator doors opening.

Adrian Voss's assistant sat behind a desk that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She was younger than I expected, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of professional composure that suggested she'd been trained to make people feel simultaneously welcome and inadequate. She had the bearing of someone who knew exactly how much power she wielded through proximity.

She glanced at me without much interest.

"Ms Hart?"

"Yes."

"He's ready for you."

She gestured toward the office without looking up from her computer screen. I understood. I was dismissed from her attention.

The office was exactly what I expected: floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, the kind of space that made clear statements about power without ever saying a word. Adrian stood with his back to me, looking out at the city. The way he stood suggested he'd been waiting for me, though not in an anxious way. In a controlled way. In the way of someone who controlled everything around him, who orchestrated each moment to maximum effect.

He was taller in person. Colder too. There was no expression on his face as he turned to look at me. His eyes were grey. Not warm grey. Not interesting grey. Cold gray. The kind of grey that belonged to someone who'd learned to compartmentalise emotion.

"Elena Hart," he said. Not a question.

"That's me."

He gestured toward a chair. "Sit down."

I sat. He remained standing, which immediately put me at a disadvantage. I was trying to decide if this was intentional when he moved to his desk and pulled out a document.

"I've been reviewing your work," he said.

"Which work?"

"Your recent activities. Your investigation into certain Voss accounts."

My stomach tightened. "I found irregularities in transactions. That's my job."

"Your job is to work in compliance for Bellavere Meridian Consulting. Not Voss International."

"Voss International accounts are part of my review responsibilities."

He placed the document on the desk between us. My name was at the top. An access log beneath it. My credentials. A timestamp: 11:26 a.m.

"You accessed a restricted file this morning," he said.

"I didn't."

He didn't respond to that. He just waited, which was somehow more intimidating than if he'd argued. The silence stretched between us until it felt like a physical presence, something with weight. Something that pressed down on my chest and made it hard to breathe.

I could hear the city beyond the windows. Traffic sounds. Sirens somewhere distant. The sound of ordinary life continuing while I sat in this office being accused of something I didn't do.

"That wasn't me," I said again.

"That's what everyone says."

I understood then. I wasn't here to report a crime. I was here to be blamed for one.

"Someone used my credentials," I said. "The same way someone deleted my work this afternoon. The same way someone knew about the Norell transactions before you summoned me."

His expression shifted slightly. Something hardened in his face, something that suggested I'd just said something he wasn't expecting. For a moment, the mask slipped. For a moment, I saw something underneath the control. Concern. Maybe even fear.

Then it was gone, and the mask was back.

"Tell me exactly what you found," he said.

I explained the Norell transactions. The repeating pattern. The way the money moved through subsidiaries with deliberately vague descriptions. The fact that someone had threatened me and then erased my evidence. I spoke carefully, precisely, the way someone speaks when they know they're being judged.

Adrian listened without interrupting. He didn't take notes. He just listened, his expression carefully neutral. It occurred to me that he was evaluating me. Assessing whether I was a threat or an asset or something else entirely.

When I finished, he was quiet for a long time.

"Who's your supervisor?" he finally asked.

"Marcus Wendell."

"Have you discussed your findings with him?"

"He told me to stop looking."

Adrian's expression changed. "Did he say why?"

"He said I was creating problems for important clients."

Adrian walked back to his desk and sat down. Now we were on more equal footing, which he didn't seem to appreciate. He looked like a man who preferred having physical advantages.

"The message you received," he said. "What exactly did it say?"

"Stop looking into Voss accounts."

"How did someone know you were looking?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

He pulled a notebook from a drawer and wrote something down. The pen moved across the paper with deliberate precision. Each word was formed with the kind of control that suggested he thought carefully about everything he committed to writing.

"I need you to forward me every message you received. Every text. Every communication related to this investigation."

"Why?"

"Because someone has just attempted to frame you for accessing confidential systems. That person knows your work schedule. They know what you investigate. They know when you're away from your desk long enough to access your computer."

He looked at me directly. His eyes were grey. Cold. The kind of eyes that had seen a lot of corporate warfare.

"It also tells me that you're either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid for continuing to investigate after being threatened."

"I prefer determined."

"Determined people often end up destroyed."

The words hung in the air between us. It wasn't a threat exactly. It was a statement of fact delivered by someone who'd seen determined people destroyed before.

"Then why would you summon me instead of having security arrest me?"

Adrian stood and walked to the window again. He looked out at the city, his shoulders squared, his posture suggesting someone carrying significant weight.

"Because I don't believe you accessed those files. And because I need to understand why someone wanted me to think you did."