Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 118

Maya’s POV

The opportunity arrives wrapped in ordinary circumstances. Daphne takes the twins to a playdate—a rare outing, carefully vetted by Archie's security team.

I watched them leave from the upstairs window: Nina bouncing with excitement, Lisa clutching her worn blanket, Daphne's hand firm on both of theirs as William held the car door open.

Three hours, minimum. Probably closer to four if Nina convinces her mother to stop for ice cream on the way home.

Xander is locked in conference calls that will stretch for hours. I can hear the muffled drone of his voice from down the hall, the sharp rhythm of a man conducting business across time zones.

He won't emerge until well after dark.

The household staff have dispersed to their duties—cleaning, cooking, the invisible machinery that keeps this estate running smoothly. No one is watching. No one is wondering where I am or what I'm doing.

I'm alone in the study, ostensibly organizing scheduling files, with access to the family computer and no one to stop me.

My heart pounds as I insert the flash drive.

The USB port accepts it with a soft click—such a small sound for something so significant. The computer recognizes the device immediately, a notification appearing in the corner of the screen.

I dismiss it with a flick of the mouse and navigate to the file directories I've memorized over weeks of careful observation.

I've prepared for this moment. Practiced the keystrokes until my fingers could move without thought, until the sequence became muscle memory indistinguishable from breathing.

I've researched the file structures, the naming conventions, the places where secrets hide in plain sight behind innocuous folder names and date-stamped archives.

Five years of preparation distilled into fifteen minutes of stolen access.

‘This is for Lora.’ The mantra steadies my hands, but only barely.

Financial records first. Bank statements, investment portfolios, transaction histories stretching back a decade.

The numbers blur as they transfer—millions moving through accounts like water through pipes, the architecture of wealth laid bare in spreadsheets and PDFs.

Email archives next. Correspondence with board members, lawyers, business partners. Threads discussing acquisitions, negotiations, the cold calculus of corporate expansion.

I don't read them—there isn't time—but I copy everything, trusting that somewhere in these thousands of messages lies the evidence I need.

Calendar histories going back years. Every meeting, every appointment, every gap in the schedule where something unrecorded might have occurred. Patterns waiting to be decoded, connections waiting to be made.

Every digital footprint Xander Hale has left in this house, copied and catalogued with surgical precision.

‘This is for Lora. This is for Lora. This is for—’

I find folders I didn't expect.

Medical records for the twins, meticulously organized. Vaccination schedules, developmental assessments, notes from pediatric appointments.

A file labeled "Lisa—Sensory Processing" contains research articles, therapy recommendations, accommodations Xander personally requested from her preschool.

Charity donations made anonymously. Not the publicized philanthropy that billionaires use for tax write-offs and reputation laundering, but quiet transfers to domestic violence shelters, children's hospitals, scholarship funds.

No press releases, no galas—just money flowing silently toward people who needed it.

Letters of recommendation written for employees' children. College applications, internship programs, graduate school admissions.

Each one is personalized, specific, clearly written by someone who paid attention to the individuals working in his household rather than treating them as interchangeable parts.

Evidence of a man who pays attention, who remembers birthdays, who apparently cares about people beyond their usefulness.

‘It doesn't matter.’

I eject the drive and slip it into my pocket just as footsteps approach down the hallway. By the time Archie appears in the doorway, I'm reviewing a spreadsheet, my expression arranged into something resembling focus.

"Working late?" His voice carries that easy warmth I'm learning to both crave and dread. "I thought you'd have clocked out by now."

"Just getting ahead on tomorrow's schedule." I don't look up. Can't look up. My hands are still trembling with what I've just done, and if he sees my face, if he looks too closely…

He enters anyway, crosses to the desk with that unhurried stride that somehow covers ground faster than it should; leans against the edge, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy, understated, nothing like the aggressive fragrances the wealthy men in my research preferred.

"The schedule can wait until morning. You know that, right? Daphne's not running a sweatshop here."

"I know. I just... wanted to stay on top of things."

"Maya." The way he says my name makes something twist in my chest. "You missed dinner. We had that pasta you mentioned liking—the one with the sun-dried tomatoes. I saved you a plate."

The kindness is unbearable.

"You didn't have to do that." My voice comes out wrong—too thin, too raw. I clear my throat, try again. "I'm not even that hungry."

"Hunger has nothing to do with it. You need to eat. You've been running on coffee and determination for three days straight, and as someone who's tried that particular lifestyle, I can tell you it ends badly."

He pauses, and I feel rather than see his gaze sharpen. "Look at me."

I don't want to. Looking at him means letting him see the guilt written across my face, the way my composure is crumbling at the edges. But refusing would be worse—would raise questions I can't afford to answer.

I look up.

Archie tilts his head, studying me with those hazel eyes that seem to see too much. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, fills with everything I can't say.

"Maya." His voice softens. "Are you okay?"

‘No. I'm a liar. I'm a weapon pointed at people who keep showing me kindness I don't deserve. I just stole your family's secrets, and I'm going to use them to destroy everything you care about.’

"Just tired," I manage. "It's been a long week."

He doesn't believe me. I can see the doubt gathering behind his expression, the instincts he's trying to suppress because suspicion feels like betrayal when you want to trust someone.

Part of me wants him to push. Wants him to crack me open and force the truth out so I don't have to carry it alone anymore. But he doesn't.

Instead, he straightens, stepping back from the desk. "The plate's in the fridge. Second shelf, behind the leftover curry. Don't let it go to waste—I fought Nina for those tomatoes, and she takes culinary defeat very personally."

Despite everything, my lips twitch. "I'll make sure her sacrifice wasn't in vain."

He pauses at the doorway, turns back.

"Whatever's weighing on you," he says quietly, "you don't have to carry it alone. That's not how this household works. We look out for each other here, even the new people. Especially the new people."

Then he's gone, and I sit in the empty study with a flash drive full of stolen secrets and a chest full of something that feels terrifyingly like guilt.