Chapter ##Prologue: A Stroke of Good Luck

Elina’s POV

I stood in the conference room, my nails digging into my palms as Derek slid my quarterly report across the table like it was his masterpiece.

The projector hummed, casting my meticulously crafted revenue projections onto the screen—numbers I’d crunched late into the night, cross-referencing market trends and client portfolios.

My work. My sweat.

And now, my smug coworker was soaking up the praise.

“Great job, Derek,” our team leader, Greg, said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“This forecast is tight. Really sets us up for Q2.”

My jaw tightened.

Tight? It was airtight because I’d triple-checked every assumption—sales pipelines, expense ratios, even the damn tax adjustments.

Derek hadn’t touched a single spreadsheet.

He’d been too busy schmoozing clients at happy hour while I wrestled Excel into submission.

“Thanks, Greg,” Derek drawled, flashing that frat-boy grin.

“Took a lot of late nights.”

Late nights? I nearly laughed.

The only late night he’d had was flirting with the bartender.

I stepped forward, my heels clicking on the hardwood.

“Actually, I built that model. Derek just presented it.”

The room went quiet.

Greg’s brow furrowed, and Derek’s grin faltered, but only for a second.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Elina, you helped with the data entry, sure. But I shaped the narrative. Made it actionable.”

Actionable? My blood simmered.

I’d spent weeks aligning the forecast with our firm’s risk thresholds, pulling data from SEC filings and Bloomberg terminals.

He’d slapped his name on the title slide and called it a day.

“Helped?” I said, my voice steady despite the heat climbing my neck.

“I sourced the raw data, ran the regressions, and wrote the executive summary.”

“You didn’t even know the EBITDA margin was off until I fixed it.”

Greg waved a hand, cutting me off.

“Let’s not split hairs. Team effort, right?”

“Derek delivered it to the partners, and they’re happy. That’s what counts.”

I blinked.

Team effort? My bonus was tied to this—my shot at chipping away at the student loans breathing down my neck.

Harvard didn’t come cheap, nor did the late-night ramen that fueled my GPA.

I wasn’t about to let this slide.

“Delivered it?” I snapped.

“He stole it. I deserve the credit, Greg. And the bonus.”

Derek chuckled, leaning forward now.

“Come on, Elina. Don’t make this personal.”

“You’re good with numbers, but I’m the one who sells it upstairs.”

Sells it? My vision blurred at the edges.

I’d caught his sloppy pivot table errors last month—saved his ass from a client meltdown—and now he was playing rainmaker?

Greg sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Elina, you’re overreacting. We’ll sort the bonus later. Let’s move on.”

Overreacting? Something snapped.

I grabbed the edge of the conference table—polished oak, littered with coffee cups—and flipped it.

Papers flew, pens clattered, and someone yelped as the whole thing crashed to the floor.

The room froze, every eye on me.

“Sort it later?” I said, my voice rising.

“I’m done sorting your messes.”

“Derek, you’re a leech. Greg, you’re spineless.”

“This firm’s a circus, and I’m not playing clown anymore.”

I stormed past their gaping faces, my pulse hammering.

Linda from HR peeked out of her cubicle as I yanked my coat from the rack.

“Elina, wait—”

“No,” I cut her off, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“I quit.”

“Tell the partners they can shove their ‘team effort’ where the sun doesn’t shine.”

The elevator dinged as I stepped inside, the doors sliding shut on their stunned silence.

My chest heaved, but a grin tugged at my lips.

I’d burned that bridge to ash, and it felt good—damn good.

*

The city air hit me like a slap as I shoved through the firm’s glass doors, my coat flapping behind me.

Horns blared from the street, and the late afternoon sun glinted off skyscrapers.

But my mind was still upstairs—replaying Derek’s smug grin, Greg’s dismissive shrug.

I’d torched that job, and the adrenaline still buzzed under my skin.

No regrets, though.

I’d rather scrape by than let those clowns walk over me again.

My phone buzzed as I dodged a bike courier.

Probably Linda from HR, begging me to reconsider.

I ignored it, weaving through the crowd toward the subway.

Student loans loomed in the back of my mind—six figures of Ivy League debt—but I’d figure something out.

I always did.

A new gig, a fresh start.

Maybe I’d even take a day to climb at Yosemite again, clear my head on those granite walls.

By the time I reached my apartment, the buzz had faded to a dull hum.

I kicked off my heels, the linoleum cool under my feet, and dropped my bag on the counter.

The place was small but tidy—no chaos, just a stack of bills on the table and a half-dead plant I kept forgetting to water.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, and sank into the couch.

One drink to vent, that’s it.

No wallowing.

I wasn’t some burnout drowning in whiskey—I had a plan.

Well, I’d make one tomorrow.

My laptop sat on the coffee table, screen dark.

I flipped it open, more out of habit than purpose, and scrolled through emails.

Spam, a bill reminder, some networking invite.

Then one subject line stopped me cold: Interview Invitation – Castro Family Office.

I frowned, clicking it open.

“Dear Ms. Vessels, we’re pleased to invite you…”

My eyes snagged on the salary figure.

Ten times my old pay.

I choked on my beer, the bottle clinking against my teeth.

Castro Family Office?

The name rang a faint bell, but I couldn’t place it.

I skimmed the details—vague, polished corporate fluff about “unique opportunities” and “confidential projects.”

No specifics, just a time and place: ShieldTech’s headquarters, tomorrow morning.

ShieldTech? The AI giant?

My pulse kicked up.

This had to be a glitch. Or a scam.

I racked my brain, leaning back against the cushions.

Then it hit me—months ago, my friend Jamie had forwarded me a job posting.

Some cryptic listing with a ridiculous paycheck.

“Bet it’s a typo,” she’d texted.

I’d laughed, tossed my resume in as a joke while sipping coffee one lazy Sunday.

No cover letter, no expectations. Just a lark.

And now, here it was, staring back at me.

I set the beer down, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Too good to be true, right?

My Harvard-honed instincts screamed caution.

Family offices managed private wealth—usually for billionaires, not random accountants who’d just flipped a table at a mid-tier firm.

And why ShieldTech’s building?

I’d audited enough client portfolios to know ShieldTech was a fortress—cutting-edge, secretive, not some coworking space for obscure outfits.

My curiosity flared, that itch I got when a balance sheet didn’t add up.

I tapped my nails on the laptop, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

Maybe it was legit.

Maybe some eccentric tycoon liked my resume—Harvard, internships at Deloitte, a knack for untangling messy financials.

Or maybe it was a phishing scheme, and I’d end up wiring my savings to a fake recruiter.

I took a slow sip of beer, the cold glass grounding me.

Either way, I’d just quit.

This email—scam or not—was a lifeline dangling in front of me.

I could ignore it, play it safe.

Or I could show up, ask questions, and see what the hell was going on.

A grin tugged at my lips.

I’d always been a sucker for a challenge.

The beer sat forgotten on the coffee table, condensation dripping onto the wood.

My laptop glowed, the Castro Family Office email glaring back, that insane salary—ten times my old pay—taunting me like a dare.

I couldn’t shake it. Something smelled off, sharp and sour, like the time I’d caught a client’s fudged P&L at Deloitte.

This reeked the same way, and no way was I biting blind.

I cracked my knuckles, the snap loud in the quiet, and dove in.

A quick search on the Castro Family Office turned up dust—just a state record, four names: Isaac, Ryan, Lucas, Adam Castro.

Four? I snorted, leaning back.

What was this, a poker club? Family offices ran trusts, estates, big money—not some boys’ night in.

Isaac’s name buzzed in my skull. I’d seen it—Time magazine, ShieldTech’s AI genius, turning code into gold.

My pulse skipped.

The email said Castro Family Office, not ShieldTech—just “confidential projects” at their sleek HQ. Weird as hell.

ShieldTech’s 10-K flashed up next—Isaac owned it all, no family office crumbs.

A side hustle, maybe? Personal cash piggybacking his tech empire?

I’d audited blurry setups like that, but four guys, no staff?

My gut twisted—shell company or straight-up scam?

I grabbed my beer, the glass slick and cold, and took a slow sip.

That pay could torch my Harvard loans—six figures of debt that haunted every bank login.

Freedom, if it wasn’t a con.

I tapped the domain: castrofamilyoffice.com. Three months old, locked tight.

No alarms, no trust either.

The brothers? NBA “Flaming Emperor,” a crooner, an art freak—stars, not suits.

No business ties beyond Isaac. My brain chewed it, spitting out gaps.

The apartment hummed, fridge droning, my amber eyes glaring back from the screen, curls tight with suspicion.

I could bail, sling my resume to some safe firm tomorrow—Harvard grads don’t starve.

But that salary. That address. Isaac freaking Castro.

My heart thumped, Yosemite’s cliffs rising in my chest—fear, pull, that electric edge.

What if it wasn’t a trick? What if it was wilder, truer?

My analytical side begged for data, but my gut—the puzzle junkie—craved the chase.

I grinned, sharp and sure, slamming the laptop shut.

Tomorrow, I’d show up, look sharp, and figure out if it’s a scam or the real deal.