Her pulse spiked. She scanned the creditor list. One name froze her.
Northline Supply Consortium.
Her father.
Years ago, that company had destroyed her father’s small contracting business with fake materials and false invoices. He complained. No one listened. He went bankrupt. Three years later, he died of a heart attack—though Elena always believed it was grief.
And now that same company was claiming millions from Roth.
The numbers didn’t fit.
She added them twice. Then again.
$45 million. Not $62.
Someone had padded the debt.
Hands shaking, she tore a sticky note and wrote:
“Mr. Roth—Page 6 doesn’t add up. Real debt is closer to 45M. There are false creditors. Please check.”
She placed it on top and left.
In the parking garage later, she waited in the concrete shadows. At 9:11 a.m., a black sedan pulled in. Roth stepped out—older, heavier, hollowed.
At 9:18, her phone rang.
“Ms. Brooks,” a strained voice said. “This is Calvin Roth. Please—don’t leave.”
Minutes later, he was in front of her, clutching the yellow note.
“Was this you?”
She nodded.
The billionaire dropped to his knees.
“You saved my life,” he whispered.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Elena said.