Elena jumped to her feet, the chair scraping loudly. “Mr. Hawthorne, please—I swear I didn’t steal anything. I’m not taking a single dollar. I only came because something was wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You’re in my private office. Who gave you permission to be here?”
“I know how it looks,” she said, her voice trembling. “But your mother asked me to review the household accounts. I worked in finance before coming here. She thought I might notice things she couldn’t anymore. When I found discrepancies, I followed them. They led here. The safe was already open.”
Nathaniel shook his head. “My mother would never send you into my office. She respects boundaries. You should have too.”
A calm, steady voice interrupted. “I did send her.”
Both of them turned.
Isabella Hawthorne stood in the doorway, leaning lightly on her cane. Age had softened her frame, but not her gaze. Her eyes held sorrow—and something colder beneath it.
“Mother,” Nathaniel said, his anger faltering. “Why didn’t you come to me?”