Next day, I skipped swimming and arrived early, hoping to catch Sandra when Camille wasn't there yet. But her desk was empty.

When checking my e-mail, I learned why. Sandra was sick, she'd stay at home today.

As I sat back in my chair, a wave of fatigue washed over me. I hadn't slept much that night and had spent most of it considering my options. And my conclusion was that there was only one way forward. I had hoped to discuss this with Sandra. But since she wasn't there, I was on my own.

It was probably better that way, no need to drag her into it.

I couldn't let the matter with the yachting expenses rest. It had to be brought to someone's attention, up in the chain of authority. Once I had done that, things would be out of my hands. I would have done my duty.

Gritting my teeth, I brought up the list of the dodgy transfers and printed it. Then I also printed some of the original invoices showing that the money was for Thierry's boat.

I stowed the papers away in a folder.

The three roses on my desk were still crisp and fresh, even the oldest one. I placed a finger on its head, feeling its cool, leathery texture.

Was I about to commit the biggest mistake of my life? Was I about to throw away the promise—or the dream—these flowers embodied?

But then, who was I kidding? He probably sent such flowers to every girl he had lunch with.

"No mooning over guys," Camille said. "You heard what Sandra told us."

Her voice made me jump. "Hey, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Relax." She held up her hands as if to stop me from jumping at her throat. "You were so engrossed with your beau's flowers that you didn't hear me come in... Where's Sandra?"

"She's sick. She sent an e-mail." I gestured at her desk.

"Okay." She checked her wristwatch. "Another hour, and you'll have four roses. We'll soon need a bigger vase."

I shrugged. Would there be more roses after today? The thought hurt.

I clenched my teeth, then I reached for the folder with the list and the invoices. "Sandra has asked me to take that to creditors and debtors. It's some report."

"Fine. If the rose arrives while you're away, I can keep it. Agreed?"

I shrugged. "Whatever."

She grinned.

I left the office and walked the corridor to the bank of elevators. Taking a deep breath, I called a cabin, for going upstairs. Creditors and debtors was one floor down. I looked back, but Camille was not in sight.

Loyalty and integrity—Thomas Thorne, Thierry's father, had mentioned them in his speech at TCorp party. I pondered the words as I boarded the cabin. The button for Top Floor looked cleaner than the others. My finger left a stain on it.

Who did I owe loyalty and integrity to? TCorp? Thierry? I had made up my mind last night. It wasn't Thierry.

The elevator's chime on the Top Floor sounded more suave, subdued than the one at accounting's floor. And the place smelled different. Cedars? No, less wild. It smelled expensive.

I had never been on Top Floor. That's where Thierry was working. The thought of him seeing me here made me shudder.

A young man carrying a stack of filing boxes came down the hallway. He wore a suit, a tie, and a stressed face.

"Excuse me," I asked, "where can I find Thomas Thorne's office?"

"Down the hallway." He used his load to motion back the way he had come. "You'll see his secretary at the end, on your left."

My heart was racing as I walked down the long corridor. It had doors on both sides. They were paneled and framed in dark wood, not the functional gray plastic and metal you found downstairs. Many of them carried names, names I knew from the executive expenses accounts. This was where they resided, the people spending such liberal amounts of money on food, cars, hotels—and yachts.

When I passed a door labeled 'Thierry Thorne', I held my breath and accelerated my steps. Their sound was swallowed by the anthracite carpet.

At its end, the hallway widened into an antechamber, with a table and two rows of chairs on its right side. At the left, there was a desk manned by a woman reading a magazine. The place was flooded with light from domed windows in the ceiling.

The secretary directed her steel-gaze at me. "Can I help you?" She wore an ironed, white blouse and had platinum hair. A permanent frown was etched into the wrinkles of her brow.

"I'm here to see Thomas Thorne." I showed her my folder. "These are some documents for him."

"You can leave them with me, thanks." Her voice was gravelly.

"Er... I have to give him the documents myself. They need explaining."

"Do you have an appointment, Miss...?"

We both knew I didn't have one.

"No, I'm sorry. My name's Anne Anderson. I'm from accounting."

"I see." She looked at her screen. "Mr. Thorne has a visitor right now and a phone call after that. He may be able to see you in between. I'll ask him when the visitor has left, but I don't make any promises."

"Thanks."

"Would you like to... wait, Miss Anderson?" Her cold eyes told me that I didn't.

"Yes." If I went back now, I might never find the courage to come up here again.

"Okay." She pointed her chin at the chairs on the other side then lowered her gaze to her magazine, dismissing me.

I took a seat from where I could see the entrance to the CEO's office, but I made sure I was out of sight of the corridor, of the door labeled 'Thierry Thorne'.

~ ~ ~

Minutes passed and piled up somewhere down the hallway. The pile was about half an hour high and weighed a metric tonne or more when the door to Thomas Thorne's office finally opened.

For a moment, I had a vision of Thierry emerging and held my breath. But it was a woman in a simple, gray dress. Theresa. The modest piece of clothing, the lack of make-up, and the loose, unordered state of her black hair made her look different from the sleek predator-woman I had seen at the party—less imposing, less defined, wilder.

She nodded at the secretary. When she saw me, her steps slowed. She had Thierry's sea-blue eyes, and they flicked over me like last time we had met, after my dance with her brother. Her gaze lingered on my jeans, making me feel out of place in the leather-and-chrome designer chair. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and gave me a brief nod and a small smile that might have been quizzical. Then she left.

A scent of lemon trailed her exit.

She seemed to have recognized me, probably remembering the girl with the least creative dress at the party. Or the worst dancer.

The secretary disappeared in Thomas Thorne's office. She re-emerged moments later and sat down at her desk without a word.

I focused on her, expecting her verdict.

She remained silent.

What a dragon.

I cleared my throat. "Can he see me now?"

"You'll have to wait."

A dragon sitting on her hoard, guarding it and growling at strangers. The hoard was Thomas Thorne.

More minutes passed, tolled by the rustling of paper when the dragon turned the pages of her magazine.

Footfalls, muffled by the carpet, approached from the hallway. A suited man appeared. Dark, short hair, good tan.

Thierry. I froze.

He hadn't noticed me and was facing the secretary.

"Hey, Selina. Is the old man in?"

"Good morning, Thierry. Yes, he is, but he's on the phone."

"Okay. Could you tell him that I'd like to see him?"

"Certainly, Thierry"

"Thanks, Selina." Thierry turned to leave.

I lowered my face, eyes on the folder in my lap. My hair formed a veil to hide behind, and I tried to look small, insignificant, invisible.

I was usually good at this. He might not see me.

"Anne? What are you doing up here?"

I willed my heart to stop. It would be best to fall dead now, right here, in this chair on Top Floor. The accountant who died in the line of duty.

My body didn't oblige, though, and my face burned as I looked up at him. "Ah, Thierry, hi. I... have to deliver some documents." I lifted the folder from my lap. "I—"

Before I could say another word, he had taken hold of the thing and opened it. Helplessly, I watched him browse its contents. His eyebrows twitched, and he looked back at me.

"Come with me." He held out a hand.

I couldn't say no, could I? Hesitantly, I let him help me up.

The secretary's eyes were on her magazine, ignoring us—or pretending to ignore us. I should call out to her. But Thierry placed a hand on the small of my back and urged me down the hallway.

We stopped at the door with his name on it.