“No problem, Mr. Sterling,” William said quickly, though his eyes remained fixed on me, filled with a sudden, sharp suspicion. “This gentleman was just asking for Mrs. Hutchkins. He claimed to be…” William trailed off, seemingly realizing the absurdity of what he was about to say.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct developed over my fifty-six years urged me to scream, to demand answers, to march up to the top floor and confront the woman I had shared a bed with for nearly three decades. But the quiet accountant in me, the man who spent his life looking at cold, hard facts on a balance sheet, took over. If I caused a scene now, Lauren would have time to construct a lie. She was the CEO of a multi-million-dollar tech firm; she spun narratives for a living. I needed to see the truth with my own eyes before she could spin me.
“I’m sorry,” I managed to say, my voice sounding hollow and distant, as if someone else were speaking. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m Gerald Hutchkins… from Hutchkins & Associates. I’m her personal accountant. I had some urgent tax documents that required a physical signature, and I thought I’d drop them off personally.”
The lie tasted like ash in my mouth, but it worked. The tension in the lobby visibly dissipated. William let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh of relief. “Ah, an accountant. Man, you had me worried there for a second. I thought we had a security breach.”
Frank Sterling gave a short, polite nod. “Ah, the financial guy. Lauren mentions you occasionally, Gerald. She says you keep her personal estate immaculate. Well, she’s currently wrapping up a call with the European division, but you can head on up. Take the express elevator to the 14th floor.”
