Chapter 2 - The Billionaire's Impossible Offer
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
I stared at Matthew Whitaker, waiting for him to explain why my dead mother's signature appeared on a company document dated three days after her funeral.
He didn't.
Instead, he turned toward the two executives.
"Leave us."
Richard Vale straightened.
"Matthew, this interview is part of an approved hiring process."
"Then consider the process interrupted."
Victoria gathered her papers immediately.
Richard remained seated.
"We have procedures."
Matthew looked at him.
"Richard."
One word.
Nothing more.
Richard stood.
The door closed behind them.
Suddenly, I was alone with a man whose reputation made wealthy businessmen nervous.
I should have been frightened.
Instead, I was angry.
"Where did you get that document?"
Matthew sat across from me.
"From the Bellamy House acquisition files."
"Why were you carrying it?"
"Because someone altered several production records before we purchased the company."
"And you think my mother was involved?"
"I don't know."
"Then why show it to me?"
"Because you recognized something in that dress."
I looked away.
The truth sounded ridiculous.
My mother had been a seamstress.
She'd worked long hours at a factory in Brooklyn.
Sometimes she brought unfinished garments home.
When I was little, I sat beside her while she repaired seams and explained why good clothing should last.
She taught me to recognize fabric by touch.
To inspect stitching.
To look beneath beautiful surfaces.
"Anyone can make a dress look expensive," she used to say. "The truth is always inside."
I hadn't remembered those words in years.
Matthew waited.
Finally, I told him about the stitching pattern.
Three short.
One long.
Two short.
"My mother called it her signature."
"Did she use it on everything?"
"No. Only things she wanted me to recognize."
Matthew opened the portfolio again.
Inside were several photographs.
Different dresses.
Different years.
The same unusual stitch pattern.
My heart pounded.
"Where did these come from?"
"Production samples from a company called Whitaker Atelier."
I recognized the name.
It had been one of New York's most respected luxury manufacturers before disappearing almost twenty years earlier.
Matthew's father had owned it.
"What happened to the company?"
"It closed after a warehouse fire."
I looked at the dates.
2005.
2006.
2007.
My hands began trembling.
"These were made after my mother died."
"Apparently."
I pushed the photographs away.
"No."
Matthew said nothing.
"My father buried her."
"Did you attend the funeral?"
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
I had been eight.
I remembered a small church.
Rain.
My father's black coat.
A closed casket.
I remembered crying until I couldn't breathe.
But I didn't remember seeing my mother.
"No," I whispered.
Matthew leaned forward.
"Miss Bennett, I'm not suggesting anything yet."
"Then what are you suggesting?"
"That someone may have lied about when your mother died."
I stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.
"I need to go."
He didn't stop me.
Instead, he placed the envelope containing my father's medicine money beside my handbag.
"You came here for a job."
I looked at him.
"That doesn't matter anymore."
"It matters to you."
I hated that he was right.
He opened another folder.
"Bellamy House needs a quality-control specialist. Someone who understands construction, not just design."
"I don't have a degree in fashion management."
"You have practical experience."
"You don't know me."
"I know you walked away from something you wanted because someone else needed the money."
My throat tightened.
"That doesn't make me qualified."
"No. Finding a production defect in six seconds makes you qualified."
He slid a contract toward me.
The salary was $78,000 a year.
I stared.
There had to be a mistake.
My previous salary had been less than half that.
"This is ridiculous."
"It's the approved range for the position."
"Why are you offering it to me?"
"Because I need someone who notices what other people ignore."
I read the first page.
Then the second.
It was a real employment contract.
Benefits.
Health insurance.
Paid leave.
A six-month probationary period.
Nothing about my mother.
Nothing about helping Matthew investigate.
I looked up.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"Men like you don't give opportunities to strangers."
"Men like me?"
I regretted the words immediately.
But Matthew only watched me.
"Say what you're thinking."
I took a breath.
"People are afraid of you."
"Yes."
"There's a reason."
"Several."
"Are the rumors true?"
He considered the question.
"Some of them."
It wasn't the answer I'd expected.
"Then why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't. Not yet."
His honesty unsettled me more than a reassuring lie would have.
I looked at the contract again.
My father needed medical care.
Our rent was overdue.
The refrigerator was almost empty.
I couldn't afford pride.
"I'll accept the position," I said. "But I won't lie for you."
Matthew's mouth curved slightly.
"Good."
"And I won't become involved in anything illegal."
"Also good."
"And whatever happened to my mother, I want the truth."
His expression grew serious.
"So do I."
I signed.
Then left the building carrying a copy of my contract and more questions than I'd ever had in my life.
Outside, the afternoon sky had turned gray.
I hurried to the pharmacy.
When I finally reached our apartment, my father was sitting at the kitchen table.
A half-finished crossword lay beside him.
"How did it go?" he asked.
I smiled despite everything.
"I got the job."
His face brightened.
"Nora!"
He struggled to stand.
I hurried over and hugged him.
For one beautiful moment, nothing else mattered.
Then I placed the photographs on the table.
His smile disappeared.
"Dad, I need to ask you something."
He stared at the first photograph.
Then the second.
His good hand began shaking.
"Where did you get these?"
"From my new employer."
"Who?"
"Matthew Whitaker."
The color drained from his face.
He gripped the edge of the table.
"Nora."
His voice sounded different.
Terrified.
"You need to quit that job."
"Why?"
"Tomorrow. Call them tomorrow."
"Dad, what's going on?"
He looked toward the apartment door.
May you like
Then whispered something that made my blood turn cold.
"Because if Matthew Whitaker has found your mother's work, then the people who tried to kill her may have found you too."
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