Conflict of Interest

The number on my screen was wrong by four million dollars, and the man who had taught me everything was standing behind me, reading it over my shoulder. "You weren't supposed to find that," Marcus said quietly, and for the first time in three years his voice frightened me. I had spent the night analysing the Aldridge pension contract, the retirement savings of eight hundred teachers and nurses. The figures were clean on the surface, but one transfer did not match its own paperwork. Money that should have stayed in a secure fund had been moved to a company called Castor Holdings, a name that appeared nowhere in our records. Marcus pulled a chair beside me, calm now, as though we were simply reviewing data before a meeting. "I built this firm's reputation on trust," he said, "and trust is just a story people believe until the evidence says otherwise." He explained it the way he explained everything, slowly, reasonably, until the fraud sounded almost like sound financial policy. The pension had been losing value for years; he had "borrowed" from it to cover the firm's failures, and no one had been harmed yet. "The economy will recover, the fund will be repaid, and no retiree will ever know," he said, as if that made it legal. Then he slid a piece of paper across the desk with a number written on it — my salary, multiplied by ten. "That is your share, and a promotion, if you help me keep this quiet," he said. "Or you can report it, and I will make sure the documents show that you created Castor Holdings yourself." I looked at the number, then at the man who had rescued my career from nothing, and I realised I did not know which answer would destroy me faster. Outside the glass wall, the office lights of the city glittered like something I had always wanted and could never quite afford.