Chapter 2: A Private Audit
The heavy walnut doors of the study closed with a dull, weighted thud that seemed to absorb the echoes of the grand foyer. Outside, the marble hallway fell silent, but inside, the air was sharp with the scent of aged leather, floor wax, and dry paper. I stood near the edge of a Persian rug, my fingers hooked tightly into the straps of my black-and-white uniform apron. Maya stayed close to my side, her small pink backpack still clutched in her hand, her chin tilted up as she looked around the vast room with a mixture of suspicion and awe.
Vance walked behind a massive mahogany desk that looked heavy enough to anchor a ship. He didn't sit immediately. Instead, he unbuttoned the top button of his vest, his dark hair catching the light of a green-shaded brass lamp, and tossed his phone onto the blotter. His expression remained closed off, a mask of cold corporate efficiency that had undoubtedly terrified boardrooms for years.
"Sit," he said, gesturing vaguely toward two leather armchairs positioned opposite the desk.
"I'd rather stand, Mr. Vance," I said, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "The floors—I don't want to track anything in."
"Sit down, Rosa," he repeated, his tone dropping an octave, leaving no room for argument. "We are going to look at the numbers. All of them."
I lowered myself onto the edge of the chair, keeping my back straight. Maya climbed up beside me, her small legs swinging slightly before she planted her sneakers firmly against the wool carpet. Vance finally sat, pulling a thin silver-toned laptop toward him and opening a spreadsheet with a sharp clack of keys.
"The call you just took," Vance began, his eyes fixed on the illuminated screen rather than on us. "The landlord. He claimed rent was past due by twelve days. Yet our accounts payable department processed the monthly household payroll on the first of the month. Your direct deposit should have cleared two weeks ago."
"It didn't," I said, the shame burning hot in my chest. I had spent months hiding this, juggling bills in my head like a game of falling knives. "Not the full amount. There was a deduction."
"What kind of deduction?" Vance looked up, his brow furrowing as he fixed his gaze on me.
Before I could stop her, Maya leaned forward, resting her small elbows on the polished mahogany. "They shorted her hours," she said clearly, her young voice ringing through the quiet room. "Every week. Mom worked thirty-eight hours, but the pay stub said thirty. And when she asked about the overtime from the charity gala last month, the lady in the agency office told her extra hours for contract staff don't count toward base pay."
Vance went very still. The glow of the laptop screen flickered across his sharp features. "Who told you that?" he asked, looking directly at me now.
"The third-party staffing agency," I murmured, staring down at my folded hands. "The one your office contracted six months ago to manage estate maintenance and housekeeping payroll. They said... they said if I didn't like the terms, there were ten other women waiting for my apron."
Vance didn't explode with anger, which somehow felt worse. Instead, his jaw tightened until a muscle ticked beneath his skin. He reached for his phone, tapped the screen a few times with a thumb, and placed it face down on the desk.
"Show me your stubs," Vance said quietly.
"I don't have them with me," I answered.
"You have them in your locker downstairs, or accessible on your phone," he countered, leaning back in his leather chair. "Open your banking app, Rosa. Let's look at the actual deposits."
For a long moment, I hesitated. Pride is a stubborn, foolish thing when you have nothing left. But looking at Maya—at her faded striped top and the heavy-duty soles of her sneakers that were wearing thin at the toes—the pride shattered. I pulled my phone from my apron pocket, unlocked the cracked screen with a shaking thumb, and navigated to the mobile banking app. I pushed the device across the mahogany desk.
Vance pulled it toward him. He scrolled through weeks of small, erratic deposits, his eyes scanning the numbers with the practiced coldness of a man who audited multi-million dollar portfolios for a living. The silence in the study stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the mansion's climate control system.
"They've been shaving five to fifteen percent off every independent contractor's check," Vance said softly, more to himself than to us. He set the phone back down on the center of the desk. "A systematic variance across the entire domestic roster. To pad their own quarterly retention bonuses."
"Will I... do I still have my job?" I asked, the words catching in my throat.
May you like
Vance looked up, and for the first time, the impenetrable businessman facade slipped just enough to reveal a sharp, dangerous resolve. He stood up, towering over the desk.
"Your job isn't the problem, Rosa," Vance said, his voice dangerously low. "The people running that agency are about to have a very difficult afternoon."
