Chapter 4 The Leak

Lila's POV

The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees in an instant.

My breath caught in my throat as Nathaniel Sterling's cold gaze pinned me to the chair.

The accusation hung between us, heavy and suffocating.

"I...what?" My voice cracked embarrassingly. "Mr. Sterling, I swear I don't know anything about..."

"Your resume," he interrupted, flipping open a file with deliberate slowness, "lists a summer internship at The Financial Journal.

June through August 2022." His finger tapped the page.

"Right under your 'Skills: Discreet and Professional' bullet point."

A nervous laugh foamed up in my throat. "That was just formatting their newsletter! I never even saw the finance section! I..."

Richard Graves chose that moment to curse violently, shoving his phone across the desk.

"It's everywhere.

Wall Street Journal.

CNBC.

Even fucking TMZ is running with it."

His gaze could have melted steel.

"They have the termination clauses.

The stock conversion rates.

These are things only five people in this company should know."

The blood drained from my face.

This couldn't be happening.

Not after the hellish morning I had endured just to get here.

Not when this job was my last chance to...

"Lydia." Nathaniel's voice cut through my panic. "Check her belongings. Thoroughly."

Nathaniel's Pov

I don't believe in coincidences.

Especially not when a so-called star candidate shows up looking like she's been dragged through the city by a pack of stray dogs, only for my billion-dollar merger to leak within the hour.

I watch her now, as she sits across from me, fingers twisting in her lap.

Her blouse is still damp from the coffee incident, her hair a mess of dark waves that she keeps tucking behind her ear like a nervous habit .

She smells faintly of lavender and, yes, still that awful hint of dog shit from whatever disaster happened on her way here.

And yet.

HR had praised her. Fluent in four languages. Columbia graduate.

Interned at Vogue Paris.

Bullshit.

Because right now, all I see is a woman who's either the unluckiest person alive, or a very, very good liar.

Richard Graves slams his phone down on my desk hard enough to make the wood creak.

"It's everywhere.

WSJ. Bloomberg.

Even fucking Page Six picked it up."

I don't look away from Lila.

"What exactly leaked?"

"Everything."

Richard's voice is tight.

"Termination clauses.

Stock conversions.

Details only the board knew."

My jaw locks.

Five people.

Five people had access to those numbers.

And now this woman, this stranger, is sitting in my office, looking like she's about to pass out.

"Lydia," I say, still staring at Lila.

"Check her bag."

Lila makes a noise, something between a shout and a protest, but Lydia is already moving, dumping the contents of her oversized tote onto my desk.

A wallet.

Chapstick.

A half-crushed granola bar.

And then

Lydia freezes.

My pulse spikes when she holds it up.

A fucking voice recorder.

The little red light is still on.

Recording.

I lean forward slowly. "Explain."

Lila's throat bobs as she swallows.

"I...I record interviews.

To review later.

I get nervous and miss things, so.."

Richard barks out a laugh. "Convenient."

I didn't react, I just watched the way her hands shake, the way her breathing knots. Fear? Guilt?

Then my phone buzzes.

A security alert.

I opened it.

And my blood turns to ice.

Security footage. 3:17 AM.

The executive floor.

A woman with the same height, same build, same damn coat Lila had draped over her arm when she walked in, stepping out of the elevator.

I turn the screen toward her.

"Care to explain this?"

Lila pales.

"That's not...I was home..."

"Your keycard was used to access the building at 3:02 AM."

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

Then, in a whisper: "Oh my God. Claire."

Richard scoffs. "Pathetic."

But I'm watching her.

The way her eyes widen.

The way her fingers held at the edge of her chair like she's about to bolt.

Then my phone rings.

The caller ID makes my stomach drop.

I answer. "Talk."

The voice on the other end is grim. "We have her."

The line goes dead.

I stand so fast my chair crashes to the floor.

Lila jerks.

"Miss Carter," I say, my voice dangerously calm, "you're going to tell me exactly who your sister is."

Because the woman in that footage?

She wasn't just stealing files.

She was wearing Lila's face.