Mr. Vale's Private Ledger

I once thought relationships worked like the strictest double-entry books: every debit had a credit, and the two always balanced.

Every sacrifice and every demand could be made to balance perfectly on the ledger of life.

Then I met Ian Vale.

To save my father, who had been left in a vegetative state, I signed a five-year contract with Ian.

He was my creditor. I was his clearly priced "Mrs. Vale."

We agreed on three rules: accounts only, no love;

We would act the part, but we would not fall for each other.

I thought that once I cleaned up his messy books and cleared the debt, I could walk away intact.

Then I was cornered in an alley, and he charged in like a madman, holding me with bloodshot eyes.

"Nora, who gave you permission to reduce us to a line item?"

0I stood in the corner of the banquet hall, holding a glass of champagne.

The crystal chandeliers caught on the jewels of socialites and wealthy wives until my eyes ached.

Not far away, Ian Vale was surrounded by a group of business leaders.

He wore a perfectly tailored black couture suit. His posture was straight, and his eyes carried a cold sharpness beneath their careless calm.

He was always like this. Even when he did nothing, every eye in the room found him.

I lowered my head and glanced at the brown paper portfolio in my hand.

Inside was not the brochure for tonight's charity auction, but a Final Financial Audit Report and a signed Divorce Agreement.

I took a deep breath, set my champagne on a passing waiter's tray, and walked straight toward him.

The crowd parted on its own as I approached.

Their eyes held curiosity, contempt, and polished fake courtesy.

They all knew I was Mrs. Vale. They also knew I was little more than the senior financial auditor Ian kept at his side.

I stopped in front of him.

He arched an eyebrow. His deep gaze settled on my face, waiting for me to speak.

I said nothing. I only handed him the portfolio calmly.

"What is this?" He did not take it. His voice was low, edged with displeasure at being interrupted.

"I have balanced the books for the past five years." I looked into his eyes and said each word clearly. "Mr. Vale, we are even." As his pupils tightened, I pushed the portfolio into his hand, turned, and walked out of the banquet hall without looking back.

I pushed open the heavy carved doors, and the cold night wind rushed into my face.

I pulled my trench coat tighter around me, but my thoughts drifted back to five years ago.

To a rainy night just as cold, the night I lost everything.

Five years earlier.

I dragged a heavy suitcase and stood in front of the black iron gate of Ridge Manor.

The rain was falling heavily, hitting my umbrella with a dull sound.

I was soaked, as if I had just been fished out of the water.

The iron door slowly slid open to both sides.

An old man wearing a gray suit, gray hair but energetic, walked out holding a black umbrella.

He looked me up and down, there was no contempt in his eyes, only a businesslike look.

"You must be Ms. Nora Shaw." He stepped aside slightly. "I'm Martin, the butler here. Mr. Vale is waiting inside." I nodded. My throat was too dry to make a sound.

The luxury inside the manor was beyond my imagination.

The high dome, the huge crystal lamp, the Persian carpet that makes no sound when stepped on.

There is a faint smell of cedar in the air, which is so oppressive that it makes people breathless.

Ian Vale is sitting on the huge leather sofa in the living room.

He was wearing a black shirt with a slightly open collar and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms.

He was playing with a silver lighter in his hand, and the sound of "click, click" was particularly clear in the empty living room.

That was the first time I really looked directly at this man.

The youngest and most ruthless tycoon in the city.

And, after my father's company collapsed and his failed suicide attempt left him in a vegetative state, the only "good man" willing to pour enough money into that bottomless pit.

Of course, his good intentions come with a hefty price tag.

"Sit." He didn't raise his head, but nodded his chin towards the sofa opposite.

I walked over and stood up straight instead of sitting down.

"Mr. Vale, I'm here." My voice was trembling, but I tried to make it sound calm.

He finally raised his head and stared at me with his sharp eyes like an eagle, as if he was assessing the value of a commodity.

He picked up a document from the coffee table in front of him and threw it in front of me.

"Take a look and sign if there's no problem." I picked up the document.

Debt Settlement Agreement.

There are not many terms, but every one of them coldly reveals the calculations of the capitalists.

1. The term is five years.

During that time, I had to live at the manor as "Mrs. Vale" and appear with him whenever he needed me in public.

2. I will serve as the chief financial auditor of his private and core industries and be responsible for cleaning up all bad accounts.

3. The massive debt my father owed would be offset by five years of my labor, my time, and my "identity."

At the end of the five-year period, both debts will be paid off.

4. Non-interference in each other's private lives.

He lives in the main building and I live in the annex building.

I looked at the neatly printed fonts and felt a little funny.

My father is an old-school accountant. He taught me abacus, double-entry accounting, and professional ethics.

But the only thing he never taught me was how to do accounting when a person regards himself as an asset to pay off debts.

I turned to the last page and looked at the figure that would take me even an ordinary person working for ten lifetimes to pay off.

I took out an old pen from my bag.

That was a gift from my father when I passed the CPA exam.

I took off the cap of my pen and signed the words "Nora Shaw" in the place of Party B.

The force penetrated the back of the paper, as if signing a life and death certificate.

After signing, I pushed the contract back.

"Mr. Vale, I've signed it." He glanced at the signature, put the contract away in the drawer, and threw a bunch of keys on the table.

"The room in the annex building, the access card for the study, and the code for the safe." His tone was unimpressive. "My accounts are very messy, and I don't like others to lie to me. If the accounts are done wrong or leaked, you can't afford the consequences."

"Understood." I lowered my eyes.

"Martin, take her to the room." He stood up and turned upstairs without hesitation.

Martin came over and picked up my suitcase.

"Nora, please come with me." The room in the annex building is very spacious, but the decoration is minimal and gives off a deserted feel.

A bed, a set of wardrobes, and a large desk.

Martin put down the box, explained a few rules, and then left.

The moment the door closed, all the strength in my body seemed to be drained away.

I slumped down on the chair in front of my desk, took out my phone, and pulled up the calculator.

That huge total debt, divided by 1825 days.

A number accurate to two decimal places pops up on the screen.

That was the daily "depreciation cost" of my next five years.

I looked at that number and my eyes were hot, but I bit my lip to prevent tears from falling.

This is a deal.

Since it is a transaction, as long as the accounts are clear, it will be settled one day.

I placed the old pen squarely on the table.

From today on, I am no longer Nora Shaw, the up-and-coming auditor.

I am Ian Vale's debtor.

A tool that is clearly priced.

The rules of the Vale household are engraved in their bones, and even their daily routine is like clockwork.

At six o'clock in the morning the next day, I opened my eyes on time.

After doing financial audits for so many years, my body has long been accustomed to this rhythm and does not need an alarm clock.

After washing up and going downstairs, Martin had already set breakfast in the dining room.

Typical continental fare: toast, fried eggs, bacon, and a pot of black coffee.

"Ms. Shaw, morning." Martin nodded slightly.

"Good morning, Martin." I pulled out a chair and sat down. "Where is Mr. Vale?"

"Mr. Vale goes for a morning run. He should be on the forest path behind the manor right now. He usually has breakfast at 7:30 and leaves for the company at 8:00." Martin answered crisply.

I gave a short reply and lowered my head, eating faster.

Share breakfast with him on day one?

I couldn't swallow that meal.

At ten minutes past seven, I put down my knife and fork, picked up the access card Martin gave me, and walked to the study at the end of the first floor of the main building.

Swipe your card and push the door open.

A smell of old paper mixed with a hint of cigar came to my face.

Even though I had done some mental preparation in advance, the moment I saw the whole view of the study, I couldn't help but take a breath.

This was not a study.

It was clearly an abandoned archive warehouse.

In a space of hundreds of square meters, oak bookshelves are filled with various folders, and mountains of ledgers, vouchers and reports are piled on the floor, sofas, and even on the large oak desk.

Some documents were scattered on the floor, with half a dusty shoe print still printed on them.

Ian Vale, a man famous in business for being cold and precise, had let his financial command center fall into this state.

I even doubt how he managed Vale Holdings to this day.

But I was shocked, and the auditor's professional obsessive-compulsive disorder in my bones began to surge wildly.

I didn't back down.

Roll up your shirt sleeves, find a few large cardboard boxes, and get started.

The first step is coarse screening.

I picked up all the documents on the floor and made preliminary classifications by year and project.

The dust was flying in the early morning sunshine, making me sneeze several times, but I didn't stop.

The brain is like a high-speed processor that quickly archives messy information.

The whole morning, I didn't even take a sip of water.

Martin brought his lunch to the door of the study at noon. When he saw the scene inside, he opened his mouth in surprise.

"Ms. Shaw, you..."

"Martin, please find me a few shredders, enough archive boxes, and label paper." I did not even look up. I was still flipping through a purchasing ledger from three years ago.

In the afternoon, I started segmenting.

Vouchers, invoices, contracts, bank statements, each category must be in perfect harmony.

It was not until evening that the entire study finally returned to its proper tidiness.

All ledgers and documents are put into unified filing boxes, clearly labeled, and neatly stacked on the bookshelf in chronological order and project category.

I wiped the desk spotless, with only a computer on it and a copy of the "Financial Current Situation Assessment and Rectification Plan" that I just drove out.

In this plan, I bluntly pointed out the chaos of his current financial management, as well as possible tax risks and funding loopholes, and listed a detailed digital transformation plan.

Looking at the brand new study, I rubbed my sore lower back and let out a long sigh of relief.

This is my value.

At seven o'clock in the evening, the sound of a car engine came from outside.

Ian is back.

I didn't go out to greet him, but stayed in my annex room.

It is written in the contract that they will not interfere with each other.

About ten minutes later, I heard a loud bang from the main building.

It sounded like a heavy folder being slammed against the wall.

My heart sank.

It seemed that my plan or my unauthorized arrangement of his study had offended him.

This kind of big boss usually has a strong sense of territoriality and doesn't like others touching his things.

But I don't care.

I'm here to settle the accounts, not be a babysitter.

If he did not accept my professional advice, the bad accounts of the past five years would not be able to be sorted out.

At dinner time, Martin knocked on the door and asked me to go to the main restaurant.

When I walked in, Ian was already sitting in the main seat.

He changed into dark gray home clothes, but his face was so gloomy that it seemed like it could drip water.

The air pressure in the restaurant is so low that it makes you breathless.

I pulled up the chair farthest from him and sat down, lowering my head to eat without saying a word.

"Who told you to touch my study?" He suddenly spoke, his voice as cold as ice.

"Me." I put down my knife and fork, raised my head and looked directly at him, "Mr. Vale, I am your chief financial auditor. If I cannot classify even the most basic original documents, I cannot carry out my work."

"I'll keep those things for use!" His eyes were sharp.

"Useful does not mean it should be piled up like trash." I did not give an inch. "I have already labeled and indexed everything. If you need any document from any year, I can find it for you in ten seconds. Also, have you read my proposal?"

He narrowed his eyes, seeming to look at me again.

Probably few people would dare to speak to him in this tone.

The air was stagnant for half a minute.

Suddenly, he picked up the communal dinner tong, picked up a piece of the tenderest belly meat of grilled salmon, and threw it directly into the bone plate in front of me.

"Eat more." His tone was stiff. "You are so thin you make me look bad when I take you out."

I was stunned.

Looking at the piece of fish on the plate, I frowned.

A slap followed by a sweet date?

As management tactics went, this was painfully clumsy.

I didn't touch the piece of fish, but picked up my knife and fork again and picked up a piece of asparagus.

"Thank you Mr. Vale for your concern, but I'm allergic to seafood." I lied expressionlessly.

His movements paused, his eyes became deeper, but he said nothing more.

After the meal, I went straight back to the annex.

When Martin was clearing the table, he followed me and stopped me in the corridor.

"Ms. Shaw." Martin lowered his voice. "Mr. Vale has a bad temper, but he is not a bad man."

I sneered. "Martin, good or bad does not matter in a ledger. There are only debits and credits."

Martin sighed, his eyes a little complicated.

"For the past three years, even the cleaning servants have not been allowed to enter Mr.'s study. His accounts are even more untouchable."

He looked at me, his tone meaningful.

"You are the first person who not only went in, but also turned it inside out, and finally came out safe and sound."

My heart moved slightly.

The first one?

What is this?

Special treatment for me, the "debtor"?

Or is there some ulterior secret hidden in his pile of bad accounts, and now he finally decided to find someone to reveal it?

I went back to the room and looked at the old pen on the table.

No matter what his purpose is, I have only one mission: to investigate every account and survive these five years.

Others are outside the scope of my calculation.

In the next few days, I locked myself in my study, like a human scanner, and inserted page after page of Ian Vale's old ledgers into my newly created electronic database.

The work was smelly and long.

Vale's business empire was sprawling: real estate and financial investment at the core, with logistics, building materials, and even a few fringe entertainment companies hanging beneath them.

The flow of funds is like a tangled web, causing headaches.

I spend more than ten hours in the study every day and rarely go out except for eating and sleeping.

Ian rarely shows up either.

He leaves early and comes home late. Although we live in the same house, we can count on one hand the number of times we have met.

This is best.

Do not disturb each other, the highest efficiency.

Until late at night on the fourth day.

I am checking the annual report of a subsidiary called "East Bay Logistics".

After staring at the numbers for several hours, my eyes were as dry as sandpaper.

I put on two drops of eye drops, closed my eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them again.

At this moment, professional intuition sounded the alarm.

Something is wrong.

I quickly pulled up East Bay Logistics' monthly shipping details for the past three years.

At first glance, the accounts look good revenue is growing steadily, costs are within a reasonable range, and profit margins are in line with industry standards.

But I set my sights on a specific line: the dedicated line from Nancheng to the northern suburbs storage center.

The single transportation cost of this line will rise slightly every month.

Five thousandths, or even three thousandths.

This kind of fluctuation is like a drop of water in the ocean in the huge total cost.

If you don't draw three years of data into a curve, you won't be able to find it at all.

I grabbed the scratch paper, quickly listed the key data, and used the calculator to deduce it.

In three years, all the "tiny increases" on this line add up...

The calculator showed one number: 1.2 million.

This is not a market move.

Someone was using that dedicated line like a leech, quietly bleeding Vale Holdings dry.

The technique is very clever knowledgeable and extremely cautious.

If I hadn't re-entered all the original documents and cross-referenced them, this bad account would always be buried under the beautiful reports.

I stared at that number and felt a chill go down my spine.

This is no longer a financial mess.

This is embezzlement and a crime.

Just when I was about to dig deeper into the final flow of the funds, there was a knock on the study door.

In the silence of the night, the sound was particularly harsh.

I was startled and almost dropped the pen in my hand to the ground.

"Who?" I asked warily.

"Nora, it's me." Martin's voice came from outside the door.

I breathed a sigh of relief and stood up to open the door.

Martin was carrying a tray with a glass of warm milk and a sandwich.

"Mr. Vale just came back and saw the study light was still on, so he asked me to bring you something to eat," Martin said with a smile. "He said staying up late wears you down, and you should not push yourself so hard."

I looked at the glass of milk and felt irritated.

What does Ian want to do?

It was as cold as ice during the day, and late at night snacks were served.

This sudden "concern" is more dangerous than losing your temper.

"Thank you Martin, I'm not hungry." I refused coldly, "And I don't have the habit of eating at night."

"Nora, please don't embarrass me." Martin sighed and brought the tray directly into the study and placed it on the coffee table. "Don't you know Mr.'s temper? If you don't drink this milk, I will have to pack up and leave tomorrow."

I know Martin is exaggerating, but I'm too lazy to dwell on this trivial matter.

"Put it there, I'll drink it later."

Martin nodded and backed out.

I didn't touch the glass of milk and sat back in front of the computer.

Just then, the phone vibrated.

The word "Mom" flashed on the screen.

My heart suddenly rose to my throat.

Calling me so late, something must have happened at the hospital.

I got through immediately.

"Hello, Mom? Is it dad..."

"Nora..." On the other end of the phone, my mother's voice was full of exhaustion and suppressed crying, "Your dad is not doing well today. The doctor said he had a lung infection and he just rescued him..."

I held the phone tightly, digging my nails into my palm.

"How much does it cost? I'll transfer it right away."

"There is still plenty of money in the hospital account..." Mom choked out. "I am just... scared. Nora, are you being treated well at Mr. Vale's home? Mr. Vale... he is not making things hard for you, is he?"

"No, Mom, I'm fine." I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice steady, "Mr. Vale is a serious businessman, I'm just helping him with his accounts, don't think too much about it."

"That's good, that's good. You have to take care of yourself and don't be too tired..."

When I hung up the phone, I felt like all my strength had been drained from my body.

I walked to the window, opened it, and wanted to get some air.

The night breeze is very cold.

I lowered my head and looked through the landscape trees in the yard to the terrace outside the main building.

Ian stood there.

He held a cigarette between his fingers, the scarlet butt flickering in the darkness.

He seemed to have just taken a shower and was only wearing a black bathrobe with the collar open.

He was looking up and looking straight at the window where I was.

I couldn't see his expression clearly from a distance of dozens of meters, but I could feel the weight in his eyes.

Like a net, covering it silently.

I subconsciously took a step back and yanked the curtains shut.

I hate this feeling of being spied on.

What I hate even more is that he appeared in my sight when I was at my most vulnerable.

I returned to my desk and forced myself to refocus on the numbers.

I have to find the vampire.

Only by proving my worth can I stand firmer in this cage.

Just when I was about to follow the clues to investigate, the study door was pushed open again.

This time, there was no knock.

Ian strode in with a faint smell of tobacco and the cold fragrance of shower gel.

Ian's sudden intrusion made the air in the study freeze instantly.

He was tall and his broad shoulders almost blocked the light from the doorway.

He didn't look at the glass of cold milk on the coffee table, but walked straight to my desk.

His eyes fell on the scratch paper spread across my desk and the dense shipping details on the computer screen.

"What are you checking?" His voice was low, with an undeniable sense of oppression.

I quickly turned over the scratch paper, trying to cover up the data I was deducing.

"Some daily account checking." I replied calmly, "Mr. Vale, it's one o'clock in the morning. You coming in without knocking on the door doesn't seem to be in compliance with the 'non-interference' clause in our contract."

He sneered and ignored my protest.

He suddenly leaned down, put his hands on the edge of the desk, and approached me aggressively with his tall body.

The distance was so close that I could even feel the warm air from his breath.

I subconsciously leaned back in my chair.

He reached out his hand and unceremoniously pulled out the scratch paper I had just turned over.

He glanced at the slightly fluctuating numbers I circled above and the final summary of "1.2 million."

His eyes instantly became dark, like a bottomless pool of black water.

"East Bay Logistics?" He read the name, and there was no emotion or anger in his tone.

"Yes." Now that I had been discovered, I simply stopped hiding it. "There are traces of man-made manipulation in the transportation costs of this dedicated line. In three years, someone used this subtle adjustment to siphon 1.2 million from the company's account."

I looked into his eyes, trying to catch something in his reaction.

anger?

shock?

Or the embarrassment and anger after being exposed?

None.

He just looked at the piece of paper calmly, as if what I said was just a trivial matter.

"Do you understand the unspoken rules of the logistics industry?" He suddenly spoke, with a hint of mockery in his tone.

"I don't understand the hidden rules." I met his gaze without giving in. "I only understand mathematics. Mathematics doesn't lie. This money is flat on the books, but in fact it is lost profits."

He straightened up and looked at me condescendingly.

"Nora, do you know some accounts are not meant to be examined too closely?" His voice carried a warning. "When the water is too clear, there are no fish. Did your father never teach you that?"

When I mentioned my father, the fire in my heart suddenly started to burn.

"My father taught me that books are like people. One wrong entry can hide a hole no one can fill." My voice was cold. "If you think I am overstepping, you can fire me right now. But while I am in this position, I will not pretend I cannot see a parasite this blatant."

The study fell into a deathly silence.

We were like two beasts confronting each other, neither of us willing to look away first.

I thought he was going to get mad and tear up the scrap paper and smash it in my face.

But he didn't.

He suddenly smiled.

It was an extremely dangerous, predatory smile.

"Okay." He slapped the scrap paper on the table, "Since you have such a professional ethics, I will give you this opportunity."

He leaned down, put his hands on the table again, and locked his eyes with me.

"Keep checking."

"Dig out all the interest chains, capital flows, and handlers behind this line."

"I want to see a complete investigation report at eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

I was stunned.

Not only did he not stop me, but he asked me to investigate thoroughly?

"What?" He raised his eyebrows, "Didn't you speak righteously just now? Now you don't dare?"

"There's nothing to be afraid of." I immediately replied, "As long as you don't regret it."

"I, Ian Vale, don't have the word regret in my dictionary."

He straightened up, turned and walked towards the door.

When he reached the door, he stopped and looked back at the coffee table.

"Drink that glass of milk."

This is an order.

After saying that, he left the study without looking back.

The door is closed.

My tense nerves finally relaxed, and a layer of cold sweat broke out on my back.

This man is too dangerous and too difficult to see through.

He clearly knew that East Bay Logistics had a problem, why didn't he deal with it?

Why wait for me to lift the lid?

I don't have time to think too much.

It's less than seven hours until eight in the morning.

I picked up the glass of cold milk and drank it in one gulp.

The cold liquid slid down my throat and into my stomach, clearing up my chaotic brain.

I sat back in front of the computer and tapped my fingers quickly on the keyboard.

I want to follow this line and drag out the big rat hiding in the dark.

I pulled up all the financial data of East Bay Logistics and started cross-referencing it.

I reviewed every payment receipt and checked every collection account.

As the investigation deepens, a secret financial chain gradually emerges.

The money that was withdrawn did not go directly into the individual's pockets, but was carried out through a series of complex money laundering operations through several seemingly unrelated shell companies.

In the end, all the money flowed into an offshore account called "Kingsley Capital."

The actual controller of Kingsley Capital is a man named "Victor Kingsley".

Victor Kingsley.

I did not see this name in the list of Vale Holdings executives.

who is he?

Time passes minute by minute.

The night outside the window gradually faded, and a fish-belly white color appeared in the east.

I rubbed my sore eyes, organized the last piece of evidence, saved it, and printed it.

7:50 in the morning.

I took a thick investigation report and walked out of the study.

This night of fighting made me feel exhausted, but more importantly, I felt the pleasure of uprooting the cancer.

I want to see what else Ian will say in the face of this irrefutable evidence.