Chapter 2
Nathaniel Cross had been my college classmate.
Back in the early days, when he couldn’t even cover payroll, I was the one who dipped into my savings to keep the lights on. Later, when we needed to project an image of success to land bigger clients, my old BMW didn’t cut it.
So I brought in the Cullinan I had bought for myself as a thirty-fifth birthday present.
I had owned it for less than a month.
“Take it,” I told him back then. “Use it. We need clients to see we’re already in their league.”
A temporary favor lasted two years.
I paid for the gas. I paid the insurance premiums. I paid for the maintenance. Sometimes, when the driver was overwhelmed, I even drove to JFK myself to pick up VIPs.
Everyone in that building knew that car was mine.
Or at least they should have.
But when I looked at Nate now, there was no defense in his eyes. His brow was furrowed, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the table.
A nervous habit.
He always did that when he was weighing his own interests against someone else’s.
“Diana,” Nate finally said, his voice low and professional in a way that felt like a slap. “The evidence Madison provided. Is it true?”
I stared at him.
Is it true?
Two years ago, when he begged me for the car so he could save face in front of a client, he’d said, “Diana, I’m so sorry to ask this. As soon as we’re in the black, I’ll buy you a brand-new one.”
One year ago, when cash flow dried up, he used that same car as collateral for a bridge loan so he could make payroll.
He told me then, “Diana, this car is the company’s lifeline. It’s your badge of honor.”
And now he was asking me if it was true.
I scanned the room.
George, the sales manager, had used that very car last week to pick up his mother-in-law from the hospital and had bragged about it on Instagram as one of the company perks.
Now he kept his head down, intently studying his legal pad.
Sarah from HR, who asked for the keys every other month to “run supplies” but really just wanted to cruise around with her boyfriend, was looking at me with a sneer, as if I were some white-collar criminal.
It turns out that in the face of profit, kindness isn’t just cheap.
It’s invisible.