C1 The Man Who Buried My Father

Amara Bennett had three rules for surviving in a world that hated poor people.

Never beg.

Never trust a rich man.

And never forget who watched your family fall and did nothing to stop it.

Unfortunately, on Monday morning, she was about to break at least one of them.

The glass doors of Cross Industries towered above her, reflecting the pale morning sky. Forty-two floors of steel, money, and power rose over the heart of Manhattan, bearing the name of the man she had spent four years learning to hate.

Damian Cross.

The billionaire who had inherited an empire, expanded it until the entire city seemed to bend beneath his influence, and somehow convinced the world that he was a genius rather than a thief.

At least, that was what Amara believed.

She tightened her grip on the folder beneath her arm and glanced at her reflection in the glass.

Her black trousers were freshly ironed. Her cream blouse had cost her almost a week's grocery money, and her shoes had survived two years of interviews, unpaid internships, and long walks home when the bus fare was better spent elsewhere.

She looked professional enough.

She hoped.

Her phone vibrated.

Mum: Did you get there safely? Please don't let them intimidate you. You deserve to be there.

Amara swallowed the lump in her throat.

Her mother had said the same thing the night before, while pretending not to worry about the electricity bill folded beneath a fruit bowl in their kitchen.

Amara typed back.

I'm here. I'll call you later. Love you.

She slipped the phone into her bag and entered the building.

The lobby was enormous, all polished marble and expensive perfume. Men in tailored suits crossed the floor while women in elegant dresses spoke quietly into wireless earpieces. Nobody looked as though they had ever checked their bank balance before buying lunch.

Amara lifted her chin.

She wasn't there to admire them.

She was there because, three nights earlier, an email had arrived offering her a position in the company's legal research department. The salary was more than she had ever earned. The contract was legitimate. The interview had gone well.

And the company's records might contain the one thing she had been searching for since her father died.

Evidence.

Four years ago, Daniel Bennett had been accused of diverting millions from a property development project. Within weeks, his business collapsed. His partners abandoned him, his friends stopped answering his calls, and the newspapers called him a criminal before a court had even heard his name.

He died six months later.

The official investigation closed.

The money was never recovered.

And Damian Cross's company acquired the abandoned development at a price so low that people whispered about it for years.

Amara remembered the night her father sat at their kitchen table, staring at a letter he refused to show her.

I didn't do it, sweetheart, he'd told her.

Those were the last words she remembered him saying about the scandal.

She had believed him then.

She believed him now.

"Miss Bennett?"

A receptionist in a charcoal suit stood behind the front desk, looking at her expectantly.

"Yes."

"You're expected on the thirty-eighth floor. The elevator is just past the security gates."

"Thank you."

Amara handed over her identification, collected a visitor badge, and walked toward the elevators.

As the doors closed, she caught sight of the company logo engraved on the wall.

CROSS INDUSTRIES.

She pressed thirty-eight.

"Let's see what you're hiding, Mr. Cross," she whispered.

The elevator began to rise.

And somewhere above her, a man who had no idea she existed was about to become the biggest problem of her life.

The interview had lasted eleven minutes.

Amara knew because she had counted.

Eleven minutes of questions from a department director who seemed more interested in her university grades than her actual ability. Eleven minutes of explaining why she had applied, what she could contribute, and why she believed she was qualified.

At the end, the director had folded his hands.

"Your academic record is impressive, Miss Bennett. However, this is a highly competitive environment. You understand that?"

"Yes."

"And you understand that working here requires discretion?"

"Of course."

"Good. You'll begin today."

Just like that.

No explanation. No discussion of the research she'd be doing. No warning that the position reported to the executive office.

Amara had signed the paperwork anyway.

Now, seated at a desk outside the executive conference room, she was reviewing a stack of property acquisition reports when a sharp voice cut through the corridor.

"Who approved this?"

Every conversation stopped.

A man stepped out of the conference room, holding a document between two fingers as if it had personally offended him.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark suit that looked expensive without trying to advertise the fact. His black hair was neatly styled, and his expression carried the quiet displeasure of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

Amara recognized him immediately.

She had seen his face on magazine covers, business news, and the front page of the newspaper that announced her father's downfall.

Damian Cross.

In person, he was more intimidating than the photographs suggested.

Not because he looked angry.

Because he looked as though anger was something he rarely needed to feel.

A nervous executive hurried after him.

"Sir, the revised projections were based on the information we received from the development team."

"Then your development team is incompetent."

"Mr. Cross—"

"Fix it before the board meeting. I won't pay people to give me expensive excuses."

He handed the document back and continued down the corridor.

The executive practically ran in the opposite direction.

Amara lowered her eyes to her reports.

Don't stare, she told herself.

Don't speak.

Don't do anything that makes him remember you.

A shadow fell across her desk.

"You're new."

It wasn't a question.

Amara looked up.

Damian Cross stood directly in front of her.

"Yes, sir."

"Name?"

"Amara Bennett."

Something shifted in his expression.

It was so brief she almost missed it.

"Bennett?"

Her fingers tightened around her pen.

"Yes."

He studied her face for a moment, as though searching his memory for a detail he couldn't quite place.

Then his expression returned to its usual cool indifference.

"You're in research?"

"Legal research, yes."

"Who hired you?"

"Mr. Harrison conducted my interview."

"And what exactly did Mr. Harrison tell you about your responsibilities?"

Amara glanced at the reports spread across her desk.

"That I'd be reviewing acquisition histories, identifying discrepancies in property records, and preparing summaries for the legal department."

"Did he tell you to review the Cross development portfolio?"

"No, sir."

"Then why are you reading it?"

She looked down at the report in front of her.

The answer was simple: because the numbers were wrong.

Three acquisition dates didn't match the archived records. A subsidiary had changed ownership twice within a month. And a property purchased for an implausibly low price had been linked to a company that no longer appeared in the current corporate register.

She could have pretended not to notice.

She should have.

Instead, she looked him in the eye.

"Because the figures don't make sense."

Silence.

Damian's expression barely changed, but his attention sharpened.

"Explain."

Amara turned the report toward him.

"The acquisition is listed as having been approved in March, but the subsidiary's ownership records suggest the transfer happened in February. The purchase price is also inconsistent with the valuation in the previous report."

"Those records are incomplete."

"Then the summary shouldn't present them as verified."

His jaw tightened.

"You're telling me how to run my company?"

"No, sir. I'm telling you what the document says."

A strange quiet settled over the corridor.

Somewhere behind her, a keyboard stopped clicking.

Damian looked at her for a long moment.

Most people, Amara suspected, would have apologized by now.

She didn't.

Finally, he placed the report on her desk.

"Bring the original records to my office at two."

She blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"Two o'clock. The original records, not your interpretation of them."

"I'll need access to the archive."

"Then ask for it."

"And if I'm denied access?"

His gaze held hers.

"Tell them I said you could have it."

He turned to leave.

Amara watched him walk away, her heart beating far too quickly for someone who had supposedly won a small professional victory.

Then he stopped.

Without turning around, he said, "One more thing, Miss Bennett."

"Yes?"

"Don't confuse being outspoken with being indispensable. This company has no shortage of people who think they know better than everyone else."

Amara felt the words land exactly where he intended them to.

She waited until he disappeared around the corner.

Then she looked at the report again.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "I don't plan to stay long enough to become indispensable."

She had a father's name to clear.

A truth to uncover.

And absolutely no intention of falling for the man standing between her and both.

At two o'clock precisely, Amara stood outside Damian Cross's office with a thick archive folder in her hands.

The door was open.

He sat behind a wide desk, reading a document on his tablet. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched behind him, offering a breathtaking view of Manhattan.

He didn't look up.

"You're late."

She glanced at the clock on the wall.

"It is two o'clock."

"Then you're exactly on time. Come in."

Amara stepped inside and placed the folder on his desk.

"I found the original transfer records, the subsidiary registration, and the earlier valuation."

He finally looked at her.

"And?"

"And the discrepancy isn't a clerical error."

For the first time that day, Damian Cross looked genuinely interested.

"Go on."

"The ownership transfer was approved by someone with executive authorization. The approval predates the date listed in the acquisition summary. Someone changed the sequence of events."

"Who?"

"I don't know yet."

"Then you have no proof that anything improper happened."

"I have proof that the records contradict each other."

"That's not the same thing."

"No," Amara agreed. "But it's a good reason to investigate."

Damian leaned back in his chair.

"You're very confident for someone on her first day."

"I'm very careful with facts, sir."

"And what happens when the facts turn out to be inconvenient?"

"Then they're still facts."

His eyes remained on her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then he opened the folder.

Amara watched his expression as he scanned the first page. Nothing obvious changed, but his fingers stopped moving when he reached the ownership transfer.

He read the page again.

"Where did you find this?"

"In the archived records."

"Who gave you access?"

"The records department. After I told them you authorized it."

He looked up.

"Did you read the entire file?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Every page."

Something cold entered his expression.

"Leave the folder with me."

"Of course."

"And don't discuss this with anyone."

Amara hesitated.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

His gaze rose slowly to meet hers.

"Miss Bennett, if I wanted an explanation for every question an employee asked me, I would have hired a journalist instead of a researcher."

"Then perhaps you should be pleased you hired someone who knows the difference between a question and an accusation."

For several seconds, Damian said nothing.

Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

It wasn't quite a smile.

It was more unsettling than one.

"Get back to work."

Amara turned toward the door.

"Miss Bennett."

She stopped.

"You're good at your job," he said. "Don't let your pride ruin that."

She looked over her shoulder.

"And you might be better at yours if you allowed people to tell you when something is wrong."

She left before he could respond.

The moment the door closed, Damian's almost-smile vanished.

He pulled the folder closer and opened the final section.

A name appeared beneath the original authorization.

VICTOR CROSS.

His uncle.

The man who had managed the company's acquisitions during the year Daniel Bennett's business collapsed.

Damian stared at the signature.

For four years, he'd believed the Bennett scandal had been investigated thoroughly. He'd believed the acquisition was legitimate. He'd believed his uncle had handled the matter properly.

Now, a new employee had walked into his office and shown him evidence that none of those assumptions might be true.

He reached for his phone.

"Get me Victor's schedule," he told his assistant.

"Today, sir?"

"Now."

He ended the call and looked again at the signature.

Outside his office, Amara Bennett returned to her desk, unaware that her first day had already changed the course of the investigation.

She'd come to Cross Industries looking for a monster.

She hadn't considered the possibility that the monster might be hiding in the family.

And she certainly hadn't considered that Damian Cross might be just as determined as she was to discover the truth.

Not yet.

First, she would have to survive working for him.

Then she would have to decide what to do when the man she hated became the only person who could help her save her father's name.