Gillian didn’t wait for an invitation. Her hand, clammy and trembling, clamped onto Petra’s wrist. “Not here, Petra! Come on, we need to talk. Now.” She tugged Petra into the narrow hallway of the apartment building, pulling the door almost shut behind them, leaving only a sliver of an opening. Inside, Finch was still sputtering about his sudden career downturn, Helena was squawking about the indignity of it all, and Bastian, ever the picture of bewildered calm, was slowly folding a napkin into a precise crane. He caught Petra’s eye for a fleeting moment, a silent question in his gaze, before she was whisked away. “Look,” Gillian whispered, her voice tight with artificial urgency, as she fumbled with a crumpled portfolio. “I grabbed these from the office. It’s an absolute disaster. They did an internal audit this morning, completely out of the blue. And these… these are what they found.” She shoved a stack of printouts into Petra’s hands. The top sheet was a bank transfer receipt. Fifty thousand San Margo Dollars, designated for ‘Botanical Acquisition & Project Overheads.’ And there, at the bottom, stark and unmistakable, was Petra’s own elegant, looping signature. Below it, a series of smaller, more detailed documents: invoices for non-existent exotic plants, supplier codes Petra had never seen, and cryptic ledger entries marked ‘Capital Seed Fund – Offshore.’ Petra stopped breathing as she scanned the documents. The penned script… it looked exact. Too exact. “This can’t be right,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I never approved an allocation this large. And ‘foreign haven’? What is this?” Gillian wrung her hands, a picture of distraught helplessness. “That’s the worst of it, Petra. The money’s gone. Vanished. And it appears to have routed into a deposit ledger… in your name. Opened last month. I tried to trace it, but it’s registered through some shell corporation in the Atoll Islands. Untraceable.” Her eyes, wide and shimmering with unshed tears, fixed on Petra. “They’re saying… they’re saying it looks like embezzlement.” Embezzlement. The word hit Petra like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. Prison. Foster care. Cleo. The image of her sister’s hopeful, innocent face flashed before her eyes, and a primal fear flared within her. No. Not Cleo. She would not let this happen. She squeezed the papers so hard the edges crinkled. “But… why would anyone believe this?” Petra demanded, her voice rising in a desperate plea. “They know me. My record is spotless.” “I know, I know!” Gillian’s voice was a frantic hiss. “But the evidence is… compelling. All the transactions are tied to your access codes, your email, your written name. They even have a series of emails, supposedly from you, approving these specific overseas purchases.” She paused, her lower lip trembling. “Petra, this looks bad. Really, really bad. We need to go back to the Olea, right now. Before they call the authorities. We have to make them understand this is a mistake.” Petra felt a fierce resolve solidify within her. She was a Linnet. She didn’t buckle. She wouldn’t ask for help, not from anyone. Especially not from Bastian, who was already struggling to make ends meet, who she couldn’t possibly burden with a legal battle of this magnitude. He thought fifty thousand San Margo Dollars was a fortune. It was her mess, and she would clean it up. For Cleo. “No,” Petra said, her chin lifting stubbornly. “I’ll handle this. I’ll go to the Olea. I’ll confront them. This is a clear frame-up, and I’ll prove it. I can’t let anyone else get involved. Especially not… not my husband.” She thought of Bastian, still meticulously folding napkins, oblivious to the catastrophe unfolding just outside the door. He didn’t need this added worry. Inside the apartment, Bastian’s smile, fixed on Finch’s bewildered face, didn’t falter. But his eyes, just for a flicker, went flat and cold, like obsidian shards. The easy-going warmth vanished, replaced by an unsettling, razor-sharp intensity that could flay a man alive. It was the gaze of a man who commanded empires, who tolerated no insubordination, no deceit. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar soft glow as Petra unlatched the door and stepped back in. “Everything alright, love?” Bastian asked, his voice gentle, his expression a picture of mild concern. He handed her the perfectly folded napkin crane. “I was just thinking, you’re probably starving after all this excitement. Let me pack you that artisanal sardine sandwich you love for lunch. You’ll need your strength.” Petra offered him a weak, grateful smile. “Thanks, Bastian. That would be great.” She pressed a swift kiss to his cheek, then turned to Gillian. “Come on. Let’s go.” An hour later, Petra stood in the sterile, air-conditioned chill of the Grand Olea’s finance department, the stack of damning printouts clutched tight in her hand. The finance director, a thin, pinched man named Alaric, sat across from her. He listened impassively as Petra stammered through her protestations, her voice gaining strength as indignation warred with fear. “This is impossible, Alaric. I’ve never seen these invoices. I never opened a remote depository. My name has been forged.” Alaric merely steepled his fingers. “Ms. Linnet, we have multiple digital clearances, confirmed IP addresses from your personal device, and a compliant opening dossier bearing your holographic biometric imprint. The funds were sent to a Crystalline Bank vault, registered under ‘Petra Linnet,’ file number 874-PL-3001, in the Atoll Islands. We even have a record of a video call verification where a person strongly resembling you confirmed the details.” Petra pressed two fingers against the desk to steady herself. Holographic biometric imprint? Video call verification? This was beyond simple forgery. This was a sophisticated, meticulous setup. Someone had gone to extreme lengths to frame her. But who? And why? “I need to see this file. I need to know where this money went!” she demanded, her voice sharp with desperation. Alaric shook his head. “We have no further access, Ms. Linnet. Crystalline Bank operates under strict privacy laws. Our investigation stops at the point of remittance. The next step, I’m afraid, is a police matter.” Leaving the office, Petra felt an icy chill settle in her chest. Gillian, who had been hovering nervously, grabbed her arm. “See? I told you. They’re not listening. What do we do?” “I don’t know,” Petra admitted, her mind racing. “But I have to figure this out.” She decided to head to her botanical office, hoping to find some anomaly, some clue in her own files. She punched the button for the service elevator, preferring its solitude to the main guest lifts. The doors hissed open, revealing not an empty car, but a hulking figure in a dark uniform. Captain Renzo Vargas, the Grand Olea’s head of security, filled the small space, his eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on her. “Ms. Linnet,” Vargas rumbled, his voice a low growl that vibrated through the small enclosure. The doors slid shut with a soft thud, sealing them inside. “A word.” He leaned against the polished steel wall, his arms crossed over a formidable chest. “I’ve just been briefed by finance. Fifty thousand San Margo Dollars. Missing.” He paused, his gaze unblinking. “My instructions are clear. You have forty-eight hours, Ms. Linnet. Forty-eight hours to return the funds to the Grand Olea’s books. Or the police will be called, and a warrant issued for your arrest.”

The Poisoned Ivy