Chapter 7 Investigation 

The office was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional clatter of keyboards from the other side of the floor. My own desk, tucked into a far corner, was a chaotic mix of documents, files, and hastily scribbled notes. I buried myself in my work, but my focus wavered, my mind circling back to him.

Alan.

The memory of last night burned at the edges of my thoughts, no matter how hard I tried to push it away.

His lips brushed my cheek with a tenderness I hadn’t expected. I hated that it made my pulse quicken, that I could still feel the faint warmth of that kiss if I let myself dwell on it for too long.

What was his game?

I tapped my pen against the edge of my notebook, the sound formed a steady rhythm against the turmoil in my head.

Alan was many things—dominant, commanding, impossible to read—but one thing he was not was careless. Every move he made served a purpose. That kiss wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate. But why? Was he playing me? Trying to probe? Or was it something else entirely?

My chest tightened at the thought. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by him, not now. There were bigger things at stake.

I flipped through my notes, forcing myself to focus. The pages were filled with everything I had managed to piece together so far—fragmented bits of conversations, obscure project names, hints of something bigger lurking beneath the polished exterior of Royce Group. Somewhere in this mess was the key to what had happened to my father. I just had to find it.

I started with the one thing that had been haunting me for weeks: the anonymous text message I’d received a month ago. “Your father was murdered. If you want the truth, go inside Royce Group.“It had come from an untraceable number, with no further explanation. I’d spent countless nights wondering who had sent it—and why. Was it someone trying to help me? Or was it a trap?

Then there was the Royce Family. They seemed to be everywhere, their name cropping up in places that felt too coincidental to ignore. According to public records, they owned a sprawling mansion in Greenwich, just a few streets away from where I grew up. But in all the years my father had worked in bioscience, he’d never once mentioned Royce Group. How could a family so intertwined with cutting-edge science and biotech industry remain completely absent from his conversations? It didn’t add up.

And then there was Edward Hawke.

The name carried weight—a name I hadn’t thought about for years until it started surfacing in my research. He and my father had been close friends and colleagues, both at Yale and in their shared projects.But now, years later, his name had appeared again—this time tied to Royce Group. The yacht gala

Had he been working with Royce Group all along? If so, why hadn’t my father mentioned it? After my father’s sudden resignation from Yale, I’d never heard his name mentioned again.

Leaning back in my chair, I retraced the path of my father’s last known movements in my mind. A research conference in Zurich. He’d attended it just weeks before his sudden resignation, and everything had changed afterward. My father, once methodical and steady, had become erratic, almost paranoid. He spent long nights locked in his study, shuffling through papers he refused to let anyone see. Then, one day, he’d resigned from Yale without warning, claiming it was for the family’s sake.

I chewed on the end of my pen, then drew a line between Greenwich and Royce Group in my notes, circling Edward Hawke’s name in red. The connections were thin, but they were there. If my father had stumbled upon something during his secret projects—something tied to Royce Group, something dangerous—it would explain his sudden resignation. It might even explain why he had vanished.

I flipped to a fresh page and started drafting a plan. If I could access the company’s top-secret archives, maybe I could find proof—a document, a memo, anything that connected my father to Royce Group. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing. I couldn’t rely on coincidence or luck anymore.

Find the missing piece. Follow the trail.

As I scribbled down my next steps, a sharp voice broke through my thoughts.

“Christa!”

I almost jumped. My pen slipped from my fingers, leaving a jagged black mark across the page. My pulse spiked as I looked up to find Catherine standing before me with irritation, her perfectly manicured nails tapping rhythmically against the edge of my desk.

“Daydreaming again, are we?” she said, her voice oozing with mockery.

I swallowed the instinctive retort, keeping my tone neutral. “Just organizing some notes.”

“Good,” her smile razor-sharp, “Because I have something that requires your immediate attention.”

Cathrine dropped a thick stack of files onto my desk with a loud thud, the force of it making me flinch. “I need a complete audit of these records by the end of the day. And don’t even think about asking for an extension”

My eyes flicked to the mountain of paperwork. “This is quite a lot of material.”

“Then you’d better get started.” She turned on her heel and walked away, her heels clicking against the polished floor.

I clenched my fists, biting back a sigh of frustration. It wasn’t the first time Cathrine had tried to sabotage me with impossible tasks, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. As I stared at the stack of files on my desk, a sinking feeling twisted in my gut. There was no way I could finish this by the end of the day. No way.

But I had no choice.

I flipped through the files, scanning them with little enthusiasm, my eyes glazing over the mundane details—budget reports, employee lists, meeting minutes…

But then, something shifted. My gaze paused.

Something in one of the pages caught my attention—an unusual phrase, buried within a pile of otherwise inconspicuous data.

The underground records room.

My heart skipped a beat. I stopped, my fingers stilling on the paper.

The underground records room? I hadn’t heard of such a place before.

My pulse quickened as I reread the line.

If I could find the records room, I could find what Royce Group had been hiding. And maybe… just maybe, I could find something about my father. Something that explained everything.

Suddenly, the mountain of paperwork before me didn’t seem so insurmountable. It was no longer a pile of meaningless tasks. It was a treasure map, and I had just uncovered the first clue.

I grabbed my pen, scribbling down notes on a fresh page, my mind already formulating a plan. This was my chance to get closer to the truth. And if Catherine thought she could bury me with a pile of paperwork, she was about to be proven wrong.

For the first time today, a small spark of hope flickered inside me.

Let’s see what secrets you’ve been hiding, Royce Group.

I walked down the dimly lit hallway, my heart pounding in my chest as I approached the door to the underground records room. The air felt heavier the deeper I went, and the underground floor was unnervingly silent, eerily so.

Only the echo of my footsteps broke the stillness.

As I reached the security desk, the administrator standing beside it glanced up, her sharp gaze taking in my approach.

“Can’t let you in,” she said with a firm voice. “Only authorized personnel.”

My stomach sank. I hadn’t expected it to be this easy, but it was still a blow. I forced myself to smile, trying to hide my growing frustration.

“I—” I started, but the administrator cut me off with a raised hand.

“Sorry, Miss Hayes.” She said, eyes flicking to my staff badge,”You don’t have the proper clearance. You’ll need approval from someone ranked higher than P7.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I could almost hear Cathrine’s mocking laugh in the back of my mind. Of course she’d known I wouldn’t be able to access the records room – She was a P5, and even she herself couldn’t get in. Cathrine had set this task just to humiliate me.

This was her scheme—another way of throwing obstacles in my path. My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms.

I couldn’t let this stop me. There had to be another way in.

Then, just as I scanned the area, a familiar voice broke in.

“Is there a problem here?”

I looked up to see James standing in the hallway, his brown eyes narrowing as he took in the situation. I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope as his gaze shifted toward me.

The administrator hesitated, a slight shift in her posture signaling that he recognized James.

“James,”I said, breath catching in my throat. I took a step forward, forcing a casual tone into my voice. “I need access to the archives. It’s… important.”

The administrator shot a look between the two of us, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

“Mr. Parker,”she insisted, albeit a little flustered. “You can enter, but she doesn’t have the clearance for it.”

My heart hammered in my chest, and I braced myself for a standoff. But before I could say anything, James stepped forward.

“Let her through,”he said, his tone cool, but unmistakably firm. “I’m commanding you to let her into the records room. Now.”

James was the CFO, ranked P7—he had the authority to grant access.

“But she’s only P1. There’s no precedent for this,” she said, still resisting.

“I know company regulations better than you,” James sneered. “And I have the authority to do this. Don’t make me say it again.”

The administrator looked between James and me, the conflict clear on her face. She hesitated for a moment longer, then—almost reluctantly—she stepped aside, unlocking the door with a swift motion.

“Thank you,”I said in a low voice, still stunned by the exchange. I followed him into the dimly lit room as my pulse raced from the adrenaline.

The records room was brightly lit, the air cool and sterile, infused with the faint scent of paper and ink. Neatly organized rows of metal shelves filled with boxes and files stretched before me. Each shelf was labeled with precision, the tags clear and professional, though a few had begun to fade with time. The room was well-secured, with an advanced access system that only a few top executives could bypass.

I turned to James, a question forming on the tip of my tongue. “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, masking the surprise underneath.

James gave me a smirk. “What? Didn’t think I’d show up to help you?”

He tilted his head, “Let me guess, Cathrine gave you some impossible task again, right?”

I forced a smile, my gaze flicking toward the rows of files. “I report to her. Nothing I can do about it now.”

This wasn’t just about Cathrine anymore. This was about uncovering the truth—something I couldn’t let him know just yet.

James stood by my side, his arms crossed. “So, what exactly did Cathrine send you in here for?” he asked, his voice light but with an edge of curiosity.