Chapter 3 - The Billionaire’s Inquiry
By Monday morning, Abigail Mercer was convinced she was going to be fired.
She had spent the entire weekend tossing and turning in her cramped, damp bedroom, reliving the terrifying moment she had stood over that fortune. She was certain that leaving the money untouched wouldn't save her—that the wealthy owner of the penthouse would check his security cameras, see her lingering by the dresser with tears in her eyes, and assume she was a thief who had simply lost her nerve at the last second.
In the ultra-luxury residential market, perception was everything. A nervous cleaner near unmonitored cash was a liability.
So when she punched her timecard at the security desk on the ground floor of the Manhattan tower, her hands were shaking.
“Abigail Mercer?” asked the heavy-set security guard behind the marble reception podium, looking up from his tablet with a neutral expression.
Abby swallowed hard, bracing herself. “Yes? That’s me.” q
“Take the private service elevator straight up to the penthouse level,” the guard instructed, tapping a key on his console. “Mr. Cross wants to see you in his private study before you begin your rounds today.”
Abby’s stomach dropped straight to her shoes.
This is it, she thought miserably. He saw the footage. He’s going to accuse me of trying to steal from him, blacklist me from every cleaning agency in New York, and have me thrown out on the street.
“Is... is there a problem?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Just go on up, Ms. Mercer,” the guard replied, offering a brief, inscrutable nod. “Mr. Cross doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
With leaden feet, Abby stepped into the private service elevator. The mirrored walls reflected a pale, tired young woman in a plain navy blue uniform shirt and sensible walking shoes, looking entirely out of place in a building where the elevator panels were inlaid with brushed titanium and polished brass.
The ride to the top floor felt agonizingly short.
When the doors slid open with a soft chime, Abby stepped out into the grand foyer of the penthouse. The morning sunlight poured through twenty-foot floor-to-ceiling glass windows, illuminating an expansive living area decorated in minimalist tones of charcoal, slate, and rich mahogany.
A tall, impeccably dressed man was standing by the window, looking out over the sprawling green expanse of Central Park.
It was Julian Cross.
In photographs, he always looked like an intimidating corporate shark—cold, unyielding, and impossible to read. In person, he was even more imposing. Broad-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones, piercing dark eyes, and hair touched with silver at the temples, he radiated an effortless, dangerous authority.
He turned around slowly as her footsteps echoed against the stone floor.
His dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made it difficult for Abby to draw a full breath.
“Abigail Mercer,” Julian said, his voice deep, smooth, and completely devoid of emotion.
“Mr. Cross,” Abby managed to say, keeping her chin up despite her terror. “I... I was told you wanted to see me before I started my work.”
Julian walked slowly toward her, his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his custom-tailored charcoal trousers. He didn't smile, but his eyes were tracking her with an analytical curiosity that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
“You cleaned the master suite on Friday morning, didn't you?” Julian asked, stopping just a few feet away from her.
Abby’s heart slammed against her ribs. She could lie, but she knew security footage would catch her instantly.
“Yes, sir, I did,” she answered steadily, deciding that honesty was her only remaining shield.
“And while you were in the master bedroom,” Julian continued, his gaze narrowing slightly, “did you happen to notice anything... unusual on the walnut dresser?”
Abby froze. The air in the penthouse seemed to grow heavy and thick. She could feel the trap closing around her.
She looked straight back into Julian’s dark, unblinking eyes, choosing her words with absolute care.
“I noticed that someone had left a very large sum of cash exposed on the furniture, Mr. Cross,” she said quietly, her voice firm despite her internal panic.
Julian raised a single eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “A very large sum. That’s an interesting way to describe three hundred thousand dollars.”
“It’s enough money to change a lot of lives,” Abby replied, her tone sharpening just a fraction with defensive pride. “Or ruin one, depending on how it’s handled.”
Julian stared at her for a long, heavy moment. Then, to Abby’s utter astonishment, the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a slow, genuine, incredibly rare smile.
“You walked away from it,” Julian said softly, almost to himself. “Thirty-one people before you took the bait. Some took hundreds. Some took thousands. You stood there looking at enough money to solve every financial problem you have, and you didn't touch a single bill.”
Abby stared at him, her confusion completely overriding her fear.
“How... how do you know that?” she asked.
Julian turned around, walking over to a sleek desk near the window and picking up a slim leather folder. He opened it and slid a single printed document across the polished wood toward her.
Abby stepped closer and glanced down at the paper.
It was a complete, detailed financial and medical profile of her family—her brother Leo’s tuition ledger, her father’s rehabilitation bills, the collection notices from her mother’s cancer treatments, and the exact balance of her overdue rent.
May you like
Abby’s face drained of color, and a flash of fierce anger replaced her fear. ᑐ
“You investigated me?” she demanded, her voice rising as the shock gave way to outrage. “You left that money out there like a piece of cheese in a rat trap, and then you ran a background check to see how desperate I was? What kind of sick game is that?”
