Chapter 4 - Behind the Iron Gates
Rosecliff Estate sat behind three miles of manicured boxwood hedges and wrought-iron security gates, perched on a cliff overlooking the grey expanse of the northern coast. When Nora’s Audi approached the main gate, the security guard stepped out of his booth, clipboard in hand.
“Name and affiliation?” the guard asked, professional and brisk.
Nora rolled down her window, her sunglasses hiding her eyes. “Nora Whitman. I’m with the primary financial underwriters for the weekend event.”
The guard glanced at his manifest, frowned, and checked his tablet. “Whitman? We don't have a Whitman listed. We have Mr. Ross and his executive team.”
“Mr. Ross’s funding is tied directly to my office,” Nora said smoothly, injecting every ounce of corporate authority she possessed into her voice. “If you’d like to call Liam from Bellamy Event Design, he can confirm my clearance. In fact, Liam called me twenty minutes ago panicking about a frozen deposit.”
The guard’s demeanor shifted immediately. The mention of frozen money and Liam’s frantic state did the trick. He pressed a button, and the heavy iron gates groaned open.
“Right through the main drive, Ms. Whitman. Park behind the east wing near the floral staging area.”
“Thank you,” Nora said, stepping on the gas.
The estate was breathtaking. Gravel crunching beneath her tires, she drove past sprawling lawns where workers were erecting a massive glass marquee pavilion. White orchids—thousands of them, judging by the towering crates stacked outside—were being unloaded by men in matching uniforms. A string quartet was doing a soundcheck on the stone terrace, their classical melodies drifting out over the crashing waves below.
Nora parked near the east wing and got out.
As she walked toward the main terrace, a young man with a headset rushed up to her. He was holding a clipboard and sweating profusely through his designer linen shirt.
“Thank God,” he breathed, clutching his chest. “Are you from the bank? Did you fix the wire?”
Nora stopped and looked him up and down. “You must be Liam.”
“Yes! Liam Vance, Bellamy Design. Look, Mr. Ross told us the wire transfer was delayed due to an international banking glitch, but the caterers are refusing to unload the Wagyu beef until they see cash, and the venue manager is threatening to lock us out by sundown. If this gala falls apart, my firm is ruined.”
Nora crossed her arms. “Tell me, Liam. How much is Mr. Ross paying your firm in total?”
Liam blinked, thrown off by the question. “Uh—seventy-five thousand for the full weekend production, plus incidentals. Why?”
“And how much has he paid you so far?”
“Just the initial deposit of eighteen thousand four hundred and fifty dollars.” Liam’s voice dropped anxiously. “Which bounced this morning.”
Nora pulled a sleek silver business card from her blazer pocket and handed it to him.
Liam looked at the card. Nora Whitman. Managing Director, Apex Capital Strategies.
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“Mr. Ross,” Nora said quietly, her voice cutting through the distant sound of violin strings, “doesn't have an international banking glitch. He was using my corporate black card without authorization. Every single cent of this event—from your design fees to the orchids, the caterers, and the venue rental—was charged to my account behind my back.”
Liam went completely pale. The clipboard slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the gravel.
