By the time the elevator doors slid open onto the twelfth floor, my palms had already stopped sweating.
It was a small victory, but I collected those. The nerves had burned off somewhere between the Board of Trustees’ reception desk and the glass-and-steel corridor that screamed money and unaccountable power. Now there was only the familiar, cold focus settling over me—a mental click as columns and cells fell into gridlines in my head.
Harrington University’s Administration Tower smelled faintly of espresso and copy toner, the acoustic panels swallowing sound so efficiently that my heels were the loudest thing in the hallway. Frosted glass offices. Abstract art. A discreet plaque that read: Ward Center for Social Impact – Executive Suite.
I adjusted the cuff of my charcoal blazer, squared my shoulders, and pushed open the conference room door.
They were already there. Of course.
“Ms. Price.” Vice Provost Adrian Sinclair rose halfway from his seat, all silver hair and soft authority, before deciding I wasn’t worth the full stand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
He said it like I’d been summoned, not contracted at eye-watering rates. I set my laptop bag down at the far end of the gleaming table and offered him a professional smile that had been tested on bankers, CEOs, and one particularly litigious charity founder.
“Happy to accommodate the Board’s timeline,” I said. “You mentioned this couldn’t wait.”
The other person in the room didn’t bother to stand at all. He lounged in his chair with the kind of relaxed posture that read to me as either supreme confidence or an excellent fake. I knew his face from the dossier and the internet: conference panels, TEDx talks, a glossy profile in Philanthropy Today.
Cassian Ward, Harrington’s golden boy. Ward Center director. Heir to the Ward donor dynasty. The alleged fraud.
In person, he was more irritating.
He had the kind of unfair bone structure that made camera lenses sigh—dark hair pushed back like he’d raked his fingers through it a dozen times, eyes some undefinable shade caught between green and brown. His blue button-down was rolled at the sleeves, tie loose, as if he were too immersed in saving the world to bother with dress codes.
He was also watching me with a cool, assessing interest that I refused to interpret as anything but hostile.
“Ms. Price,” he said. His voice was lower than I expected, the syllables clipped in that East Coast boarding-school way. “Our very own oracle of spreadsheets.”
“Mr. Ward.” I slid into the chair opposite him and opened my laptop. “I’m more effective when people skip the worship metaphors.”
His mouth twitched, just enough to suggest he’d filed that away, and I hated the tiny flare of satisfaction in my chest.
Sinclair resumed his seat at the head of the table, folding his hands. “We’re all on the same side here,” he said smoothly. “The Board simply wants to be reassured that the Center’s rapid growth has maintained the highest standards of compliance. Ms. Price is here to help us demonstrate that.”
Help you weaponize it, you mean.
I kept my expression neutral. “My mandate is to perform an independent forensic audit of the Ward Center’s financial operations,” I said. “I’ll report directly to the Board. I’ve been given full access.”
