Page 74 of Fated Love with You
Several Months Ago
Isink into a chair so stiff it might as well be display-only. Every surface in the room gleams — a museum of tastefully lifeless décor. A house meant to impress, not be lived in. Nate Taylor thinks this makes him clever. That he can steal from me and hide behind beige wallpaper and brushed nickel trim.
He honestly believes I’d never find out he’s been siphoning money from my accounts for years.
I glance at my watch.
Nate Taylor should be walking through the front door any second now…
Headlights flash through the windows, and the garage rumbles open. The distinct tap of loafers on the tile follows, and then?—
I hit the lights.
“Good evening, Mr. Taylor.”
“What the—” He gasps, dropping his briefcase to the floor. “Who the hell are you?”
“Wrong question.” I lean forward. “I’m in a good mood though, so I’ll let you try again.”
“I’m calling the police.” He pulls out his phone.
One of my men glances at me with aShould I stop him?look. I shake my head.
“I’m serious,” Nate says, lifting his phone to his ear. “If I were you, I’d leave while you still can.”
“I’ll leave once you give me all the money you stole back,” I say. “All thirty-six million, four hundred sixty-eight thousand, and seventy-eight cents.”
His phone slips from his fingers, the screen shattering on impact.
“You can just give me the account number for the offshore bank where you’re hiding it, and we’ll all be on our way…”
“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he stammers. “I… I don’t owe anyone any money.”
His face drains of color as he looks between me, Chester, and my guards.
“You’re confusing me with someone else. This is a mistake.”
I drum my fingers along the armrest, letting the silence stretch. Civilian white-collar criminals like Nate operate differently. You can’t take what you’re owed in blood — not in the suburbs. They like logic. Paper trails. Questions with clear answers.
“Your firm is Walt, Yule, and Taylor Financials, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You run the client section?”
He nods.
“So, you would be in charge of charging clients for your services—” I don’t pause for a reply. “And surely you’d notice charging a set of dead clients two hundred grand a month…There’s no way that shit didn’t come up in an audit, especially once it hit the millions.”
His expression caves, giving me everything I need.
“Those dead clients’ money came from my accounts,” I say. “So you’ve been stealing from me.”
He swallows hard.
“But if you give it back today — in full and with interest — I’ll forget this ever happened.” I pull out a business card and click my pen. “Offshore account number. Now.”
“I don’t have it in an offshore account.”
