Chapter 7 - Facing the CEO|
At 1:55 PM, the private executive elevator chimed smoothly, opening directly onto the quiet, carpeted top floor of Whitmore Confections.
Hannah stepped out into the hallway, clutching Ellie tightly against her chest in a thick fleece snowsuit. She had left the squeaky stroller downstairs in the lobby, terrified that the sound of the wheel would anger him further. She wore her best pair of jeans—which were still faded at the knees—and a modest green sweater she had bought at a thrift store three years ago.
The double doors to the CEO’s office were wide open. Warm yellow light spilled out into the corridor.
Hannah walked to the doorway and stopped, her heart beating frantically against her collarbone.
Ethan Whitmore stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the snow falling over the city. He wore a crisp dark charcoal suit without a tie, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. Up close, he looked even taller than he did in local news photographs. Dark hair silvering slightly at the temples, sharp jawline, and eyes that looked impossibly tired.
"Mr. Whitmore?" Hannah called out softly.
Ethan turned around slowly. His gaze swept over Hannah, lingering for a brief second on Ellie, who was curiously sucking on her thumb while staring at the big glass windows.
"Miss Mercer," Ethan said, stepping forward. "Thank you for coming."
Hannah swallowed hard, bracing herself for the speech she had rehearsed all morning. "Mr. Whitmore, I brought my checkbook. I don't have much in my account right now—maybe eighty dollars until my next deposit—but I can write you a check today to start paying for the damage to the music box."
Ethan walked over to his desk, picked up the yellow maintenance note she had written the night before, and held it up between his fingers.
"You wrote that you were entirely responsible," Ethan said, his voice calm. "Why didn't you just hide the box behind the financial reports and walk away? Nobody saw you."
Hannah looked him dead in the eye, her jaw setting with quiet, fierce pride. "Because my daughter was watching me. I might not have much money, Mr. Whitmore, but I have my integrity. I won't teach my child that it's okay to break something that belongs to someone else and pretend it didn't happen."
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Ethan stared at her for a long, silent moment. The coldness in his eyes seemed to crack just a fraction.
"That music box," Ethan said quietly, turning to glance at the broken rosewood on his desk, "belonged to my daughter."
