Desire & Blood - The Thorne Siblings

2. Numbers Don't Lie

Accounting was more than just work for me—it was my bedrock. The order, the rules, and the solid structure of all the numbers. Their neat world was so different from the chaos I had grown up in, from the mayhem and neglect that was my mother's home—a place I had fled years ago, even though that had meant dropping out of school to earn my own money.

And the numbers in the company's accounts told stories. One of my duties was to control the charges in the executive expenses account, which counted the money spent by the bosses—and the tales I found there made me dizzy.

The cash the people on the Top Floor spent—and charged to TCorp—was dazzling. Restaurant bills (for whole crowds of people, exceeding several hundred per head), airline tickets (first class, of course), golf club memberships ($45k per year—they probably slept there), chauffeur services (a single week of that cost more than what I had to pay to municipal transport each year), hotel bills (higher than my monthly rent), you name it.

And each one of these expenses had to be signed by someone entitled to authorize it. It was my job to check the signatures and their authorization.

Usually, everything was in order.

But not today.

I stared at a list of bank transfers to a company called Yachting Care Services, Ltd., Teaport. I had filtered them from the endless flood of entries in the account.

All these payments had been authorized by Thierry Thorne. The same guy who had smiled from my screen during lunch break, the crown prince of TCorp—the fakeling.

Each one of the expenses was below $100k, and his daddy had conveniently entitled junior to authorize anything up to... $100k. So they were, formally, legitimate.

But there were lots of them. Summing up to more than one million over the last twelve months.

Was Junior draining funds from TCorp?

I looked up, searching for our team leader. "Where's Sandra?"

"She's left for t'day." Camille's voice was blurred with late afternoon stupor.

"Is Bob still in?" Bob was the head of accounting.

She shrugged. "Dunno."

I should let this rest. Imaginative expense splitting was commonplace practice at TCorp. If you wanted an office refurbished for $5,000, but were only entitled to authorize expenses up to $1,000, you asked the supplier to charge you the amount in five smaller invoices. A simple trick, irritating in its neglect of the rules.

I had never seen it on such a scale, though. It brought up a sickly taste in my throat. TCorp had given me—a school drop-out—a job and an education. They had always treated me decently. I owed them. Yet there were people abusing their position, sucking the place of its funds.

But the person who had authorized the fishy expenses was Thierry Thorne. The son of our Big Boss, and his designated successor.

So, it wasn't a good idea to make a fuss. Definitely not. But it was what they paid me for, wasn't it?

Not an easy decision, a decision well above my pay grade—a pay grade that was still at the bottom end of the scale. My lack of a proper degree had given Bob the perfect excuse to keep it there.

But there was a good side to this—Bob would have to deal with the mess. The decision was his, not mine.

I sent the list to the printer.

~~~

The artificial smell of cheap cologne or soap lay heavy in Bob's office. He smiled at me when I entered. "Hey, Anne. How can I help you?" he tweeted—in the birdy sense, not in the Twitter sense. His high-pitched voice reminded me of a bird.

He smiled and motioned for me to sit in the visitor's chair. Bleached teeth seemed to be all the rage at TCorp.

I sat down. "Thanks. I've got something I'd like to show to you."

He tilted his head at me, clearly surprised by my serious tone of voice. If there were birds with curly, flaxen hair, he would have looked just like one of them.

Without another word, I placed the list before him.

He looked at me, raising his eyebrows. When I remained silent, he took the printout and studied it.

Taking a long breath, he gazed at me once more. "And...?"

"Looks fishy, doesn't it?"

"Each one of these expenses is below one hundred thousand. He's authorized to sign them."

I was sure he knew what I saw there. Bob wasn't stupid. But he didn't even dare say it aloud. So I did. "Looks like Thierry Thorne draws a lot of funds from TCorp. Shouldn't this be checked with Top Floor?"

Bob set the paper down, sat back, and sighed. "Look, Anne. You're a young, smart, and... fine young woman." He paused and smiled at me while his eyebrows climbed hairwards.

Fine? I tried hard to suppress a grimace. My gaze darted to the photograph at the edge of his table. It showed him together with his wife and the kids.

A married man making eyes at me—I'd been there, I'd fallen for a guy like that. It still hurt. Never again. I'd stick to the rules. Curly birds weren't my type, anyway. Nor would I want to have a thing with my boss.

Or did I jump to conclusions here?

"Anne, when somebody from my group brings up something like this... I can't just ignore it. I do have to check it, as you say, with Top Floor."

I nodded and opened my mouth to thank him but was cut short as he raised his hand.

"But you'll also understand that I'll have to reveal... my source."

Ah, that was it. He'd go up there and tell them it was me who had doubts about the legitimacy of the expenses. Not him.

Coward.

"So, you're sure this is correct?" He put a finger on my list.

I bit my lip. He had just given me a chance to retreat, to take back the list, to say that I'd have to re-check it and that there was probably some mistake. To burn it, to eat it, and to never bring it up again. If I didn't do that, he'd take it to the top brass, telling them it was me, Anne Anderson, who questioned the integrity of our gorgeous, soon-to-be-CEO.

But the numbers on that piece of paper didn't lie. Numbers didn't do that. People did.

My mother would tell me not to mess with those in power. But I wasn't my mother. Resignation wasn't my thing.

And Thorne Jr. might be the prospective heir to a fortune, but he wasn't any better than us. He wasn't above the law.

I gave the man my best challenging stare. I didn't care if he thought it made me look like a petulant child. "The list is correct. I've checked it several times."

"In that case... I'll have to escalate the matter." He took up the list, folded it once, and locked eyes with me.

I swallowed, nodded at him, and turned to the door.

What would Top Floor do when Bob carried the list up there? Would they shoot the culprit, the messenger, or the one who had found out about the whole mess?