My Fiancé Embezzled Public Funds to Keep His Mistress

"No pre-approval, and you won't get a single cent from finance." Vivian Moore slammed the folder onto the conference table, tapping her fingertips against the cover. The white tips of her nails made two soft clicks against the surface. Four senior partners sat across the conference table. None of them spoke, their eyes darting back and forth between me and the expense reimbursement form. I stared at the topmost reimbursement form, the numbers stinging like needles: $58,620. That was the full amount I had paid out of pocket with my own card when I flew to New York to relocate a witness during the eight months I spent securing the Kane Nelson case for the country's wealthiest man. Every last expense had been pre-approved verbally in advance, and every single one had an email approval record. All that was missing was the final step: the official stamp for financial write-off. And now, Vivian had blocked that final step. Daniel Moore, seated at the head of the table, sighed. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and set them on the table, then turned sideways, placing his palm over the back of my hand. He leaned in very close, his voice so low that only I could hear it. "Victoria, don't clash with Vivian." His thumb drew slow circles on my knuckle, his gaze locked on my face, not moving an inch. "You've been overworked lately; your emotions are getting the better of you. "Flying to New York to relocate the witness, fronting the public relations fees—you didn't get written pre-approval for any of that, and it's definitely against company policy. Don't be so harsh, okay?" But my gaze drifted past him to the half-open leather briefcase behind his back—an envelope from Wells Fargo was sticking most of the way out. My fingers froze. That unusual spending alert from two months ago hadn't been my imagination after all. It was a home equity line of credit confirmation letter. The only thing it could be related to was the single-family home in Santa Monica, the wedding property we took out a $3.6 million joint loan for earlier this year. I had never signed any loan application, but the letter bore both our names, for a credit limit of $200,000. For his birthday last month, I used this very card to book the omakase he'd been raving about for three years—two spots, costing 4,800 dollars. Right after the meal, he went straight to Vivian's apartment. Part of that money ended up as the necklace around her neck right now. "Victoria, speak up." Vivian rapped her knuckles on the table, her voice rising sharply. "Don't think you can do whatever you want at this firm just because you landed the Nelson family contract. A firm can't function without proper procedures." I pulled my hand out from under Daniel's palm. My palm felt hollow, the faint, illusory warmth gone with the movement. "Fine, then don't approve it," I said. The conference room went dead silent, so silent that the only sound was the whir of the central air conditioning. Daniel stared at me with a look of suspicion on his face. I stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of my skirt in one sharp, smooth motion. "Since it doesn't comply with firm policy, I'll cover this expense myself." With that, I didn't spare a glance at the expressions on their faces; I pulled open the conference room door and walked straight out. My high heels clicked crisply against the marble floor of the corridor, their echoes crisp and clear. Behind me, Vivian's cold sneer drifted over. "Stop acting all high and mighty. Wait till the bill comes, let's see how hard she cries." 'Cry? You're the ones who should be crying.'