Chapter 2 - The Audit of Peter MaddoxEdward didn't offer her a seat immediately. Instead, he walked slowly toward his massive mahogany desk, where a thick, cream-colored folder lay open. Mara recognized it instantly: her employee file, complete with every performance review, project appraisal, and commendation she had earned since starting at the museum.
"Do you know what the biggest asset of the Centennial Museum is, Miss Ellis?" Edward asked, leaning casually against the edge of his desk.
"The permanent collections, sir. The historical artifacts—"
"Wrong," Edward interrupted smoothly. "It’s the people who translate those artifacts into a language the public can feel. For four years, you’ve been doing that heavy lifting. According to my audit of the children’s wing project, attendance jumped 42% under your direct coordination."
Mara’s breath hitched. "Peter Maddox handled the final reporting—"
"Peter Maddox couldn't coordinate a two-car funeral," Edward said, his voice dropping into a dry, chilling cadence. He flipped a page in her file. "In fact, I spent yesterday evening looking at a few other things. Like why your name was scrubbed from the title cards of the Victorian textile exhibit. And why your budget requests for the upcoming autumn gallery were slashed by sixty percent while Maddox took a first-class trip to London for a 'consultation' that yielded zero results."
Mara’s fingers tightened around her portfolio. "How did you..."
"I own the building, Miss Ellis. Which means I see the ledgers. And more importantly, I hate mediocrity disguised as management." Edward finally gestured to a leather armchair opposite his desk. "Sit."
She sat down, her mind racing. This wasn't just a casual chat about an accidental email. Edward Hale was sizing her up for something much bigger—and Peter Maddox’s days at the museum were suddenly looking very numbered.
"You wrote in your letter that you feel invisible," Edward continued, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her expression. "Was that a metaphor, or a statement of fact?"
Mara looked straight into the billionaire's uncompromising gaze. The fear that had gripped her all morning suddenly dissolved, replaced by a cold, long-overdue surge of anger at the system that had kept her in the shadows.
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"It’s a statement of fact, Mr. Hale," she said, her voice steadying. "In that museum, if you're not the one taking the credit, you don't exist."
Edward held her gaze for a long, heavy moment. Then, a faint, dangerous smile touched the corner of his lips.
