Chapter 18 - The Audit of Autumn
The frost on the high glass panels of the Moretti conservatory looked like powdered glass in the early morning light. Sloan sat at the small mahogany writing desk that Raphael had moved into the sunroom specifically for her weekly arrivals, her fountain pen scratching a steady, rhythmic pattern across the thick linen paper.
Opposite her, seated in a high-backed leather armchair with a cup of black coffee cooling between his palms, Raphael watched her with that quiet, intense concentration that had once terrified half the financial district in Manhattan. Now, it was just part of the morning weather.
"You're skipping the line item on the eastern terrace repairs," Raphael noted, his voice flat, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Daniel told you the masonry estimates came in under budget. Why aren't you logging the surplus?"
Sloan didn't look up from her ledger. "Because surpluses have a habit of disappearing into discretionary funds when you aren't watching, Mr. Moretti. I’m rolling that balance into the staff holiday bonus pool. It’s called redistribution."
"Redistribution," Raphael repeated, a dry chuckle rumbling in his chest. "You sound more like a labor union delegate every Monday."
"Somebody has to keep the books honest, Raphael," she said, finally setting down her pen and meeting his gaze squarely. "Otherwise, you’d spend all your profits buying more imported marble you never look at."
The easy banter had become their ritual over the past year—a verbal chess match built on mutual respect and the ashes of their former lives. The tension that had once hung between them like a drawn blade had melted away, replaced by something sturdier, forged in the quiet hours of midnight audits and shared coffee.
May you like
Daniel Bishop appeared quietly in the double doorway, holding a silver tray with the morning post. He glanced between them, a master of diplomatic discretion. "Excuse me, boss. Mail from Harbor Ridge. Express delivery for Miss Vance."
Sloan’s hand froze mid-reach. She took the thick manila envelope from Daniel’s tray, her heart skipping a familiar, protective beat. It wasn't from Junie—her sister’s letters always arrived on pink stationery with cheerful, messy handwriting. This envelope bore the official, embossed stamp of the Harbor Ridge physical therapy department’s legal counsel.
