Chapter 2 - The Auditing Eye
The taxi smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and damp upholstery. Outside the window, the jagged, gray coastline of Newport slipped past under a heavy morning fog. My right leg rested across the seat cushions, propped up on my travel bag, swollen to twice its normal size and throbbing in time with my pulse.
My phone screen flickered in the dim light of the car.
The notification banner displayed the charge details again: $42,500.00 — Estate Catering & Events.
It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn't a pre-authorization hold. It was the final, cleared balance for the luxury estate reception, pushed through my corporate emergency credit card—a card issued exclusively for major international shipping losses, secured by a high-level corporate PIN, and linked to my private vault.
My parents had access to my emergency contacts, my home address, and my medical directives in case of a maritime accident. They did not have my corporate card credentials.
Or so I had believed.
I pulled up my family group chat. The screen was a wall of unread bubbles from Mom:
“Where are you?”
“Sloan is beside herself. Her makeup artist is threatening to leave.”
“If you miss the ceremony, don't ever expect to be welcomed back into this family.”
I didn't reply to the texts. Instead, I opened my banking app, exported the encrypted transaction log, and forwarded it directly to corporate security at my firm, followed by a brief voice note to our legal counsel, Marcus Vance.
“Marcus, it's Merritt. I need an immediate asset freeze and an audit trail check on corporate card ending in 4092. Someone authorized a $42,500 event charge from my account without my consent. Yes, I'm pressing formal misuse charges. Send the preliminary paperwork to my email by noon.”
By the time the taxi pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the estate, my phone was ringing.
It was my father.
I let it ring out to voicemail, watched the screen go dark, and adjusted the straps of my medical brace. The driver turned around, looking back with unconcealed sympathy.
May you like
“Ma'am, you sure you want to go back in there? You look like you belong in an ICU, not a party.”
“I'm not going to a party,” I said, sliding my crutches out of the footwell and gripping the handles with hands that had spent years hauling myself up rusted steel ladders on container ships. “I'm going to collect an audit.”
