Samira had settled herself so easily into New York life. There was hardly anything that the wealthy who's-who here loved more than a beautiful young foreign heiress and Samira quickly made shows of her wealth to make it clear that she was a serious player among them. It was nothing too flashy, but picking up the cheque for a group at a five-star Michelin or being seen to tip someone casually with a $100 bill were things that served to say that you had money and that it was nothing to you.
Which was true, to be fair. Money had never meant much to Samira, who had grown up in the sort of luxury that most would never even taste. And while she was on a stipend that angered and frustrated her, it still turned out to be more than many were making in a year.
As promised when they met, John Haveland remained mostly out of her way other than a regular check in to make sure she still had no problems, and a few gala events he'd invited her along to.
But tonight she was in his office building, having appeared that afternoon to sign some needed paperwork before John suggested that, if she waited, he'd give her a ride home. Samira, who was in no particular rush to get home and who had just gotten to a very juicy part in her book about serial killer Albert Fish, made herself comfortable on the staff room couch, legs tilted together to the side in the most comfortable manner for the skirt she was wearing. (As always, Samira was dressed both impeccably and respectably. As a teenager her only interest in picking an outfit had been how much skin it would show off at the club, wanting as much leg and cleavage on display as possible. But as she got older, her priorities shifted. Now she didn't show off skin like that, simply because some man ogling her on the street didn't deserve the view. Only the people that Samira felt deserved it (if only for a night) got to see more than her well tailored outfits allowed. No cleavage, rarely anything above the knee.)
When Samira looked up from her book, she realised that she hadn't heard anyone moving around the office for a while. She frowned slightly, standing and moving quietly down the corridor. If that son of a bitch had left her here-
But no, John was in his office and staring out the window, muttering things under his breath about sheriffs and guttersnipes and kings. She could see the glow of his computer screen between them and Samira slipped out of her heels for silence and approached it, book held carefully in hand.
It was a financial spreadsheet and, more interesting than that, it was a financial spreadsheet in flux. He was moving things that shouldn't be moved, naughty Mr Haveland. Samira spotted her father's name on the list and the money that was being shifted there too. She should have gone back to the door and knocked as though just arriving, as though she wasn't spying, as though she were the unknowing rich girl she feigned to be... but the intrigue was too tasty to walk away from.
So instead she said, still leaning across the desk and counting numbers, "you can take almost twice that from my father's accounts before he starts to realise."