"They invited their 'plain' accountant to a criminal gala for a laugh. Then she walked in wearing armor."

Thomas Steves finally found his feet, marching across the marble floor with a red flush creeping up his neck. “Larkin, what is the meaning of this? You brought our accountant here to make a fool of us, and she’s standing around running her mouth to Delgado about offshore accounts?”

“Shut up, Thomas,” Larkin snapped without turning his head, his dark eyes never leaving Penelope’s face. The usual bored arrogance that defined Larkin’s demeanor had vanished, replaced by a hyper-focused, razor-sharp alertness.

Delgado stared at Penelope for a long, agonizing heartbeat, then threw his head back and let out a booming, theatrical laugh.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Delgado patted Larkin on the shoulder with enough force to rattle his custom lapel. “You keep a tigress in your basement, Larkin, and you dressed her up like a lamb for three years! I like her. If you ever want to leave the Steves family sinking ship, Miss Woods, my door in Miami is always open.”

“Thank you, Mr. Delgado,” Penelope replied evenly, maintaining total eye contact. “I prefer New York weather.”

Delgado chuckled again, tipping his glass toward her before turning away to rejoin his associates.

The moment they were out of earshot, Larkin stepped in close—too close—his voice dropping to a low, hissed growl that only she could hear. “What the hell was that, Penelope? Panama? Where did you pull that number from? That file was encrypted behind three layers of military-grade firewall on my private terminal.”

Penelope tilted her chin up, looking straight into his dark, furious eyes. “You taught me how to trace corporate fraud, Mr. Steves. When you spend three years balancing invoices for companies that don't exist, you start noticing when four million dollars vanishes between a shell corporation in the Caymans and a logistics firm in Queens. Did you really think I couldn't read your private notes?”

Larkin’s breath hitched. For a second, the brilliant, terrifying mastermind of Manhattan’s financial underworld looked utterly defenseless.

Thomas hovered behind them, his face twisting in panic. “Larkin, she knows too much. We can't have an accountant walking around with our entire ledger memorized. You need to fire her tonight. Right now!”

“Fire me?” Penelope turned her head slowly, fixing Thomas with a look so cold and devoid of fear that the younger Steves physically stepped backward. “Go ahead, Thomas. Fire me. Call human resources and tell them you’re terminating the employee who holds the cryptographic keys to every unfiled tax return, offshore bribe, and illicit shipping manifest you’ve processed since 2023. See how fast your uncle lets you keep your corner office.”

Thomas opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at Larkin for backup, but Larkin was silent, his gaze fixed on Penelope with a mixture of disbelief, respect, and something entirely unreadable.

“You didn't come here tonight just to look pretty, did you?” Larkin murmured, his voice laced with grim fascination. “You knew Thomas planned to humiliate you. You wore that dress, you dropped that Panama leak on Delgado, and you backed us into a corner right in the middle of the Corsaro-Delgado summit.”

“I came here to collect,” Penelope said softly.

“Collect what?”

“My ninety thousand dollars in student debt, cleared by midnight. A promotion to Senior Vice President of Financial Operations with full voting rights. And a corner office on the forty-third floor—with a window that actually opens.”