She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 96

(Natasha)

I stare at the merger documents on my desk until the numbers blur into a solid black line.

Above me, the water stain on the ceiling drips.

A single, fat drop of condensation hits the edge of my metal trash can.

Tink.

The sound drills right into the base of my skull.

I drag my finger down the printed column of the Warren Global asset valuation.

I’ve been systematically working my way backwards since I found the altered figure several weeks ago.

It’s not a clerical error or a rounding discrepancy.

It’s a deliberate change that would make it look like Chase was trying to swindle Jeffrey.

There are three people with the access to have done it.

Me. Chase. Jeffrey.

Jeffrey Bauer altered the figure.

I know it for a fact.

I can practically smell his overpowering cologne on the ink.

It seems far-fetched, but I don’t think he ever wanted a deal.

He just wanted a way to get close to me.

And now he wants to tank the merger before it goes through.

And he wants to do it in a way that leaves Warren Global looking dishonest.

If this discrepancy makes it to the final audit, the SEC would tear Chase apart.

Stock prices would tank.

The board would demand a sacrifice. It wouldn’t matter that Chase will inherit all of Elias’s shares one day.

He’d be out on his ass to save face.

And Bauer would be standing there, looking like the victim of corporate fraud, ready to play the savior.

Or at the very least, ready to offer me a lifeboat when the dust settles.

Chase is arrogant.

He’s impossible.

He’s currently ruining my life with his refusal to just be a normal, functional human being.

But he doesn’t fudge numbers.

He’s too proud to cheat.

He thinks he’s smarter than the market.

He believes he can win any negotiation through sheer, brute-force intellect.

Falsifying a ledger is beneath him.

Bauer, on the other hand, has far fewer scruples.

I rub my eyes. They feel full of sand.

I spent last night at Chase’s apartment again and barely slept.

We haven’t talked about my visit to his office, or his suggestion.

My overnight bag is currently sitting on the floor of his immaculate guest bedroom.

My shampoo is on the shelf of a custom marble shower.

It feels like an invasion, but neither of us is acknowledging it.

Instead we step around each other like we’re explosive devices about to detonate, and the slightest friction will cause mass destruction.

It’s messing with my head.

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