The amount printed clearly on the line was $4,800,000.00.
Four million, eight hundred thousand dollars.
Andrew looked up at her, looking almost amused now, shaking his head slightly as if sharing a joke with an invisible audience. "Four point eight million?"
"That is correct," Elena said softly.
Andrew let out another small laugh, louder this time. The sound carried in the quiet, hushed acoustics of the grand lobby. In a place where silence was a premium commodity, a mocking laugh was the equivalent of a blaring siren.
This time, Elena didn't smile at all, and she didn't look away. Her stillness was profound. It was the kind of stillness that usually precedes a violent storm.
The brief commotion, subtle as it was, had caught the attention of the room. Several people in the lobby had stopped what they were doing and begun watching the interaction at Counter Seven. A silver-haired businessman standing near the frosted-glass entrance of the private wealth management wing glanced over, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses and frowning at the breach of decorum. A woman draped in a heavy cashmere coat, waiting for a senior teller, turned her head, her eyes narrowing as she ruthlessly assessed Elena's attire, silently agreeing with whatever judgment the teller was making.
Sensing the shifting atmosphere and the eyes upon him, Andrew lowered his voice. He adopted a tone of faux-patience, the kind one might use to explain a simple concept to a confused child or a stubborn dog.
"Ma'am, perhaps you should speak with a branch manager. This is highly irregular, and I cannot process a piece of paper of this magnitude without heavy authorization."
"I'd be happy to speak with a manager," Elena replied, her voice smooth as silk.
"I'll call someone down," Andrew said, his hand reaching eagerly for the sleek, multi-line black phone on his desk. He wanted her out of his line. He wanted security to handle whatever delusion or massive fraud this woman was attempting. He was already looking forward to telling the story in the breakroom later.
But before his fingers could graze the heavy receiver, Elena spoke.
"There's no need to make this complicated, Andrew."
Andrew froze. His hand hovered over the phone. He looked at her, his jaw setting stubbornly. He hated that she had read his nametag. It felt overly familiar.
"I agree," Andrew said coldly. "Which is why I need to call my senior manager."
He picked up the check again, tapping the crisp edge of it against his keyboard in an irritating rhythm. "You do understand that large transactions require strict, multi-layered verification?"
"Of course."
"Identification? Two forms, government-issued?"
"I have it."
"Source of funds? Proof of origin? A letter of intent?"
"I have the documents."
Andrew stopped tapping the check. He stared at her. For the very first time since she had walked up to his counter, his smug, impenetrable smile faltered and completely disappeared. He had fully expected her to panic at this stage. He expected her to stutter, to snatch the check back, mumble an excuse, and run out the revolving doors before he could call the police. Fraudsters always balked at the mention of hard documentation. They thrived on confusion, not paperwork.
"Documents?" he echoed, his voice losing its mocking edge, replaced by a sudden, creeping uncertainty.
Elena didn't say a word. She simply opened her scuffed leather handbag. There was no hesitation, no frantic searching. She calmly reached inside and removed a thick, pristine, heavy-duty leather-bound legal folder. She unsnapped the brass clasp and laid it open on the counter, turning it so the pages faced him directly.
Inside the folder was a mountain of indisputable proof. There were neatly organized corporate papers with raised seals. There were heavily notarized legal documents printed on thick vellum. There was a pristine, diplomatic-tier passport. There were high-level, encrypted wire transfer instructions.
And, sitting on top of it all, was a beautifully printed letter on the heavy, distinctively watermarked stationery of Sterling, Vance & Croft.
Andrew felt a sudden, cold weight drop into his stomach. Sterling, Vance & Croft was not just any law firm. They were a legendary, ruthless, internationally recognized corporate law firm. They represented sovereign nations, massive tech monopolies, and the world's most terrifying billionaires. Furthermore, Andrew knew for a fact that Sterling, Vance & Croft was the primary outside legal counsel for Harrington & Cole's own board of directors.
Elena placed her hand flat next to the folder.
Andrew looked at the first page. It was a certificate of authentication for the draft, signed in blue ink by a Swiss banking official. He looked at the second page. It was a corporate resolution detailing the unconditional release of funds. He looked at the signature on the law firm's letterhead. It belonged to Arthur Vance himself, a senior founding partner.