Page 45 of Breaking the Ice Queen
Sienna’s hands went very still on the keyboard. Her breathing was shallow. Her pulse was loud in her ears, and the conference room’s fluorescent lighting seemed suddenly harsher, flatter, stripping the warmth from the space they had shared for weeks.
Three years. The memo was three years old. If Adriana had acted on her own recommendation, if she had conducted the audit, disclosed the findings, severed the client relationship, the payment scheme would have been exposed before it reached its current scale. Before the three additional years of bribes and silenced rivals and manipulated awards. Before the dozens of people whose careers had been damaged or destroyed by Burty’s corruption in the years since Adriana buried her own warning.
The case Sienna had spent nine months building could have been broken open three years ago by the woman sitting in an office fifty feet away.
And Adriana had chosen silence.
Sienna stared at the memo. The words blurred and sharpened and blurred again, and she was not sure if the blurring was tears or rage or both. She set her hands flat on the conference table, the same table where they had built the alliance, debated the evidence, leaned so close their shoulders touched, and pressed down until the cool surface anchored her.
This was why Adriana had been so thorough. The thought moved through her like cold water: all those weeks of meticulous documentation, every financial record flagged and cross-referenced, and the one document that changed the meaning of all of it had been left exactly where it had always lived. Not highlighted. Not flagged. Just present, in a subfolder three levels deep, waiting for someone thorough enough to find it.
Or was that the point? The alternative was just as devastating: that Adriana had genuinely joined the alliance, genuinely opened her files, and had simply been too ashamed to surface the one document that proved she had known and done nothing. Not sabotage but cowardice. Not a strategy but a wound too deep to probe voluntarily.
Sienna didn’t know which version was true. She wasn’t sure it mattered.
The result was the same: three years of silence. Three years of additional victims. Three years during which Adriana Lovett had been collecting retainer fees from a man she knew was committing fraud, and the evidence of her knowledge had been sitting in a sealed file one floor above the conference room where she’d looked into Sienna’s eyes and said,I want to do the right thing.
Joaquin Torres had said as much, once. Not in those words, but in the quiet way he had stopped returning Sienna’s calls after investors pressured him into burying his own investigation. He had chosen silence too. He had weighed the cost of speaking against the cost of staying quiet, and he had chosen his career over his conscience, and Sienna had spent three years not forgiving him for it. She had built her entire professional life on the conviction that she would never make the same choice. That truth was not negotiable. That silence, when you knew the truth, was complicity.
And now she was sitting in a conference room holding a memo that proved the woman she loved had made exactly Joaquin’s choice. Had known the truth. Had weighed the cost. Had chosen silence and called it pragmatism, the same way Joaquin had called it survival.
The parallel was so exact it made her sick.
The rage arrived last, and it was enormous.
Not hot rage, not screaming rage, but the cold, structural rage of a woman who had dedicated her life to exposing lies and had just discovered that the person she loved had been lying by omission since the day they shook hands on a rooftop restaurant and called it an alliance.
She called Dani.
Dani answered on the first ring. “Hey. How’s the session?”
“Can you come to the Lovett office?” Sienna’s voice was flat. Controlled. The control was costing her more than any confrontation she had ever conducted. “I need you here.”
“What happened?”
Sienna gripped the edge of the desk with her free hand.
“Just come. Now.”
Dani arrived in twenty-two minutes. Sienna met her in the lobby, handed her the printed memo without explanation, and watched Dani read it standing in front of the elevator with her coat still on and her car keys in her hand.
Dani read the memo twice. Her face went through a progression of expressions that Sienna tracked with the clinical focus of a woman who was using observation as a substitute for breaking down: confusion, understanding, anger, and finally the stillness of someone who has just had a very ugly suspicion confirmed.
“Three years,” Dani said.
“Three years.”
Dani folded the memo in half, then unfolded it again, her fingers pressing hard enough to leave creases.
“She knew. She wrote this. She identified the fraud and recommended an audit and then she filed it away and kept representing him for three more years.”
“Yes.”
“And she’s been sitting in that conference room with you for weeks, sharing evidence, building this alliance, and she never mentioned that she had a memo in her own files that would have broken the case open before we ever started.”
Sienna’s hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her thighs. “Yes.”
Dani looked up from the memo. Her dark eyes were hard. “Protection or sabotage?”
