Abby’s fingers hovered just millimeters above the crisp, banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Every fiber of her being screamed out for her to grab just one stack.

Julian didn't wait. He strode out of the security office, his custom tailored shoes clicking sharply against the marble flooring of the penthouse, navigating the sprawling hallway until he stepped into the master bedroom.

Abby jumped, dropping her cleaning rag as the billionaire blocked the doorway. Julian Cross was a man legends were written about—reclusive, ruthlessly sharp, and notoriously untrusting.

“You left it out,” Abby stammered, her voice small, backing away instinctively. “I... I didn’t touch it. I swear to you, Mr. Cross, I was just cleaning the surface, and I saw it, but I didn't touch a single bill.”

Julian didn't speak immediately. He walked past her, slow and deliberate, stopping in front of the dresser. He looked down at the money, then back up at Abby. His face was unreadable, a mask of cold architecture.

“Why?” Julian’s voice was low, carrying a dangerous curiosity. “You looked at it. You knew exactly what it could buy you. Everyone has a price, Ms. Mercer. What’s yours?”

“My price isn’t my integrity,” Abby retorted, sudden courage flaring in her chest despite her terror of losing her job. “You think because you live up here in the clouds, buying people’s loyalty like groceries, that everyone’s soul is for sale? Keep your money, Mr. Cross. But keep your tests to yourself, too.”