Chapter 2 - The Payroll Money Led Straight Back to My Own Family
I didn't sleep that night.
Neither did Marcus.
By midnight, my office had become a command center.
Every monitor was lit.
Payroll records.
Bank statements.
Security logs.
Employee files.
Vendor contracts.
Tax documents.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't looking at my company like a businessman.
I was looking at my own home like a crime scene.
Harrison sat in a conference room downstairs under supervision.
He had requested his attorney.
I told him he could have one.
Then I told him no one was leaving the estate until I understood what had happened.
At 1:17 a.m., Andrew called.
“We found the staffing company.”
“What is it?”
“Larkwell Domestic Services.”
“I've never heard of it.”
“That's because it's not a normal staffing company.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was incorporated eighteen months ago.”
“Owner?”
A pause.
“Evelyn Whitmore.”
My sister.
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The answer I hadn't wanted.
“How much money?”
Andrew exhaled.
“We traced approximately $1.8 million.”
I opened my eyes.
“From how many employees?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Over how long?”
“Eighteen months.”
“So they were all being paid.”
“Technically.”
“And the money?”
“Transferred to accounts controlled by Larkwell.”
I looked toward the city lights outside.
Twenty-three people.
Not one.
Not two.
Twenty-three.
The betrayal was systematic.
And my sister had built an entire business around stealing wages from people who worked inside our estate.
“Where is Evelyn?”
“I don't know.”
“She knows.”
“I think so.”
“Bring her to the estate.”
“She isn't answering.”
“Then find her.”
I ended the call.
A soft knock came at the door.
I expected Marcus.
Instead, I saw Camila.
She stood in the doorway holding two cups.
“What's that?”
“Hot chocolate.”
I stared at her.
She shrugged.
“My mom says grown-ups make bad decisions when they don't eat.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
She stepped inside.
“My mom asked me to say sorry.”
“You don't need to apologize.”
“She thinks I embarrassed you.”
“You didn't.”
“She says rich people don't like being accused of lying.”
I sat down.
“Your mother is right about many things.”
Camila smiled slightly.
Then she grew serious.
“Are you going to fire her?”
“No.”
“Are you angry at her?”
“No.”
“She was scared.”
“I know.”
Camila looked at the screens.
“What are those?”
“Records.”
“Are you trying to find whoever lied?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“My mom said Mr. Harrison always went into the little office near the laundry room after she asked about money.”
I looked up.
“What little office?”
“The one with the filing cabinets.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“When was the last time you saw him there?”
“This morning.”
“Was anyone else with him?”
She hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
“Who?”
“I don't know her name.”
“What did she look like?”
Camila thought carefully.
“She was pretty.”
I almost smiled.
“That narrows it down considerably.”
“She had blonde hair.”
My smile disappeared.
Evelyn had blonde hair.
“Anything else?”
“She wore a blue coat.”
“Did she say anything?”
Camila nodded.
“She told Mr. Harrison to make sure Mom never came upstairs.”
My blood ran cold.
“Are you sure?”
Camila nodded.
“She said, ‘The last thing we need is Victor seeing her in the main house.’”
I stared at her.
Victor.
My name.
Not “Mr. Whitmore.”
Not “the owner.”
Victor.
That meant whoever said it knew me personally.
Maybe very personally.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
Camila thought again.
“She said something about a file.”
“What file?”
“Family file.”
I felt the air leave the room.
“Thank you.”
She started toward the door.
Then stopped.
“Mr. Whitmore?”
“Yes?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“My mom likes working here.”
I looked at her.
“She says your house is beautiful.”
I smiled faintly.
“She doesn't deserve what happened.”
“No,” I said. “She doesn't.”
Camila left.
I watched the door close.
Then I called Marcus.
“Go to the laundry office.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Ten minutes later, he returned with a box.
Inside were copies of employee payroll records.
All altered.
There were two sets.
Official.
And private.
The private set contained handwritten notes.
Names.
Numbers.
Payment amounts.
And next to each employee, a percentage.
Twenty percent.
Thirty percent.
Sometimes forty.
I read the notes.
“Rosa Martinez — desperate. Will wait.”
My fist tightened.
Another:
“Jamal — afraid to complain.”
Another:
“Maria — husband sick. Easy to pressure.”
This wasn't random theft.
Someone had studied these people.
They knew exactly how much pain each worker could tolerate before speaking up.
Then I found a note attached to Rosa's file.
“Keep her away from main house. Child asks questions.”
My eyes froze.
Camila.
Someone had been tracking her.
I stood.
“Marcus.”
“Yes?”
“This has nothing to do with payroll anymore.”
“No.”
“It is organized.”
“Yes.”
“And whoever is running it knew about my family.”
Marcus looked at me.
“You suspect Evelyn?”
“I don't suspect anyone yet.”
That wasn't entirely true.
I already suspected her.
But suspicion wasn't enough.
I needed proof.
At 3:00 a.m., I went to Evelyn's house.
The lights were on.
Her car was in the driveway.
She opened the door wearing a silk robe.
She smiled.
“Victor? What are you doing here?”
I stared at her.
“Where were you today?”
She laughed softly.
“That's an interesting way to say hello.”
“Where were you?”
“At a charity dinner.”
“Who can confirm that?”
She frowned.
“What is this?”
I stepped inside.
“Rosa Martinez hasn't been paid in three months.”
Evelyn's face barely moved.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“I'm sure Harrison was handling it.”
“Who owns Larkwell Domestic Services?”
She went still.
I knew immediately.
“Victor…”
“Answer me.”
She stared at me.
Then smiled.
“It was a small private investment.”
“With payroll money?”
“No.”
“Then explain why employee wages went there.”
Her expression changed.
“You've been investigating.”
“I've been protecting my employees.”
“They're household staff.”
The way she said it made me feel sick.
I looked at my little sister.
The girl who used to sleep beside me during thunderstorms.
The woman I had trusted with my estate.
“You're stealing from them.”
She shook her head.
“You don't understand how wealthy families work.”
“No.”
“I understand perfectly.”
She stepped closer.
“You think everything is black and white because you built your company that way.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your mansion costs millions to run.”
“So?”
“So someone has to make difficult decisions.”
I stared at her.
“You took wages from people who can't afford groceries.”
She looked away.
“Everyone survives somehow.”
I felt something break inside me.
Not rage.
Something worse.
Disappointment.
“Did you know about Rosa?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know she was going to lose her home?”
“She should have managed her finances better.”
I took a step back.
“You are my sister.”
“Yes.”
“And you did this under my roof.”
She didn't answer.
“Why?”
She finally looked at me.
“Because you never trusted me with anything.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“You gave everything to the business.”
“I built that business for our family.”
“You gave it to yourself.”
“That doesn't justify stealing.”
“No,” she said quietly.
“It doesn't.”
Then her eyes hardened.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“I hated watching people worship you.”
I stared at her.
“You think this is about jealousy?”
“It is.”
She stepped closer.
“You walk into a room and everyone stands.”
“You think I enjoy that?”
“Yes.”
I almost laughed.
“You have no idea what it costs.”
She smiled.
“Maybe now you'll finally understand what it feels like to lose something.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“What does that mean?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she said the sentence that would haunt me for weeks.
“You're looking in the wrong direction, Victor.”
“What?”
“The payroll theft isn't the real secret.”
She closed the door.
I stood outside in the cold night air.
For the first time, I wondered whether Evelyn was guilty of something far larger than stealing employee wages.
May you like
And if she wasn't the mastermind—
who was?
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