For Love or Money

Chapter 1

Emily

The fluorescent lights hum overhead as I tap my pen against the counter, creating a rhythmic distraction from the emptiness of the lobby. 3:07 PM. The digital clock's red numbers mock me, each minute crawling by with excruciating slowness.

"Welcome to First National," I say to an elderly woman approaching my window. The words taste stale, rehearsed. Like everything else in my life.

My fingers move swiftly across the keyboard, processing her deposit. The same keystrokes, the same forced smile, the same script I've repeated thousands of times. So old. The monitor's glow casts a sickly pallor over my hands, and I notice my engagement ring catching the light. It feels heavy today, like a shackle rather than a symbol of love.

"Would you like a receipt?" I ask, though my mind wanders to the half-finished story buried in my laptop at home, untouched for weeks.

"No, dear," the woman says, gathering her purse. "You look tired, honey. Everything alright?"

The question catches me off guard. My pen stops mid-tap. "I'm fine," I lie, my default response these days. "Just counting down to closing time."

She gives me a knowing look that makes my chest tighten. "Sometimes the hardest prisons are the ones we build ourselves."

What is that supposed to mean?

The woman shuffles away, leaving me with words that hit closer to home than she could know. My gaze drifts to the clock again. 3:09 PM. Time moves like molasses in January, each tick of the second hand another reminder of dreams deferred.

Through the glass partition, I watch my coworkers going through their own mechanical routines. We're all just extras in this scene, playing our assigned roles in the grand production of corporate banking. The thought of spending another decade behind this counter makes my stomach churn.

The bell chimes, its familiar ring cutting through my boredom. I glance up from my monitor, and my breath catches.

The man who walks in doesn't just enter – he commands the space. His suit fits him like it was poured on, each step precise and measured against the worn lobby carpet. Everything about him screams metropolitan sophistication, from his Italian leather shoes to the way he adjusts his cufflinks while scanning the room.

My fingers hover over my keyboard, forgetting the half-finished transaction. He doesn't look around like our usual customers, searching for the shortest line or checking the posted rates. Instead, his gaze sweeps over the crown molding, the dated wallpaper, the security camera placement. His inspection feels... professional. Clinical.

"Did you finish with my deposit, dear?"

I jump. The elderly woman from before is still at my window, peering at me with concern.

"I'm so sorry," I say, my cheeks warming as I complete her transaction. "Here you go."

When I look up again, he's speaking with Sandra at the information desk. His voice carries across the lobby – smooth, cultured, nothing like the local drawl I'm used to hearing. This isn't someone who belongs in our little branch, where the biggest transaction of the day is usually a farmer depositing his market earnings.

The ceiling fan wobbles overhead, squeaking with each rotation. He glances up at it, the corner of his mouth twitching. I recognize that look – it's the same one I wore when I first started working here, before I learned to tune out all the little imperfections that make up my daily prison.

I should look away. I should focus on my work. I should remember the ring on my finger. Instead, I watch him pull out his phone, noting how his shoulder muscle ripples under his jacket as he moves.

Sandra points him toward my window, and my heart stutters as he approaches. His presence fills my peripheral vision, commanding attention without saying a word. Our eyes meet, and the air between us crackles with something electric, something dangerous. My fingers curl against the counter's smooth surface, seeking an anchor against the sudden vertigo.

The world narrows to piercing blue eyes that seem to see right through my professional facade. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I have to swallow before I can speak. Why is my mouth so dry?

"How can I help you?" I sound steadier than I expect, though my pulse thunders in my ears.

His gaze flicks to my nameplate, then back to my face. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly – not quite a smile, but something more intimate. More knowing. A paper rustles somewhere in the lobby, but all I can focus on is the way his fingers rest on the counter, mere inches from mine.

I should remember my place, remember all the reasons this moment shouldn't affect me the way it does. But I can't. In this instant, I'm not Emily the bank teller, not Emily the reluctant fiancé. I'm just Emily, a woman caught in the gravity of something I don't quite understand.

The silence stretches between us, electric and full of possibility, until he finally breaks it.

"Declan Hunt." His voice carries the weight of someone used to being heard the first time. "I need immediate access to my accounts."

The name registers – I've seen it in financial magazines, usually alongside words like 'mogul' and 'empire.'

"Of course, Mr. Hunt. I'll just need to see some identification."

He slides his driver's license across the counter, his signet ring catching the light. The photo matches the man before me, though it fails to capture the intensity of his presence.

"This is time-sensitive," he says, drumming his fingers once on the counter. The gesture speaks of controlled impatience. "I understand you'll need to verify everything, but I'd appreciate expediency."

I scan his ID, hyper-aware of his gaze. The computer takes its time loading – suddenly the ancient system seems even slower than usual. Each second stretches like taffy. I enter his account information and wait seemingly forever for it to register.

The screen finally loads, and my eyes widen at the numbers displayed.

"I'll need to get my manager for transactions of this size," I say, reaching for the phone.

His jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath perfectly smooth skin. The change is subtle – like watching a tiger's ears flatten before it strikes.

"I understand protocol," he says, each word precise and controlled. "But time is rather crucial here."

"I'll page him right now," I say, reaching for the phone. My hand trembles slightly, and I curl my fingers into a fist to steady them. "It shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

"Minutes." He tastes the word like it's bitter. His gaze darts to the security camera in the corner, then back to me. "And your manager is...?"

"Gavin Rhodes," I reply, punching in the extension. The phone rings once, twice. Each unanswered ring makes Declan's shoulders tighten further.

"No answer?" His voice drops lower, private. The kind of voice that makes promises – or threats.

"He might be in a meeting." I set down the receiver, painfully aware of how close his hands are to mine on the counter. "I can try his cell-"

"Do that. Now."

The command in his tone makes me jump. I fumble with my phone, nearly dropping it. When I look up, his expression has softened slightly, but the tension remains in his jaw, in the rigid set of his shoulders.

"I apologize," he says. "This situation is... time-sensitive."

The word choice makes my skin prickle. There's more here than a simple transaction, more than just another wealthy client throwing his weight around. Something in his carefully controlled demeanor screams of barely contained urgency. Desperation. And desperate people can be dangerous.