The Billionaire's Silent Wife (Ryan and Eve) novel Chapter 39

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39 Shadows on the Ledger

The morning sun spilled across Rodrigo’s Restaurant in long, golden stripes, cutting through the smell of freshly baked bread and simmering broth. The place was alive as usual, staff preparing for the afternoon crowd, laughter drifting from the kitchen, knives clattering against cutting boards.

But in the small upstairs office, the world was falling apart.

Miter Rodrigo sat behind his desk, his face pale beneath the fluorescent light. Before him lay an opened envelope stamped URGENT, TAX AUTHORITY NOTICE. The paper trembled in his

hands.

“Government Land Use Fine and Unpaid Tax Assessment: $4,523,000.”

The words stared back at him like a curse.

He read it again, hoping he’d somehow misread the number, that an extra zero had found its way in by mistake. But no, the digits were as sharp and merciless as knives.

Kamila entered the room with a cup of coffee, humming softly until she saw his face. The color drained from hers instantly.

“Miter?”

He didn’t answer. He simply handed her the letter.

She read it once, twice, then pressed her free hand to her mouth. “Four point five million?”

“Apparently,” he said hoarsely. “They claim we’ve been underreporting our earnings. Someone tipped them off that we’re hiding income. They’ve frozen our business account pending

review.”

Kamila sank into the chair opposite him. “This has to be a mistake. We’ve always been transparent, our accountant files every quarter.”

Miter exhaled shakily. “That’s what I thought. But it seems someone filed a report against us. An anonymous complaint.”

Kamila’s expression hardened. “Matthew.”

The name tasted bitter between them.

Miter rubbed his temples. “I can’t prove it, but it started two days after I fired him. I wouldn’t put it past him to get revenge.”

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There was a long silence, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner.

Finally, Kamila said, “What will we do?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I’ve already called our lawyer, but he says we need the accountant to verify our filings. And our accountant hasn’t answered my calls since yesterday.”

Kamila stood abruptly. “Then we go to his office.”

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By midmorning, they were driving across Westwood, the city buzzing under the late-summer heat. Kamila gripped the steering wheel tightly, glancing at her husband’s ashen face every

few blocks.

He looked smaller somehow, his broad shoulders hunched, his confidence stripped away.

Rodrigo’s had been his life’s work. Every wall, every stove, every recipe had been built with his own hands. The restaurant wasn’t just a business; it was a legacy. And now, because of someone else’s negligence, or malice, it was slipping through his fingers.

They arrived at the accountant’s office, a narrow glass-front building on Beckman Avenue. The receptionist greeted them politely, but when Miter asked for Mr. Lawson, her face faltered.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Lawson is out of town. He left for a conference in Portmore and

won’t be back until next week.”

Miter stared at her. “A conference? He didn’t mention that to me.”

“I believe it was last-minute,” she said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” he said flatly, turning away.

Outside, Kamila touched his arm. “We’ll find another accountant. Someone who can go through the books and sort this out.”

He nodded mutely.

By the time they returned to the restaurant, the lunch rush had started. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses drifted from the dining room, but to Miter, it all felt distant, like noise from another world.

Eve noticed the moment he stepped into the kitchen. He looked older than he had that morning, his skin gray with worry.

“Papa?” she asked quietly, wiping her hands on her apron. “What happened?”

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He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing you should worry about, hija. Just business troubles.”

But she wasn’t convinced. “You’re pale.”

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He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The government says we owe taxes, millions of dollars’ worth. I think Matthew reported us.”

Eve froze, her stomach sinking. “Matthew?”

He nodded. “He must’ve filed a complaint, told them we were cooking our books. Now they’re claiming back taxes. They’ve frozen our business account until we settle it.”

Her heart squeezed painfully. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Pray,” he said with a tired chuckle that wasn’t really a laugh. “We’ll need a miracle.”

That afternoon, the lawyer arrived, a lean, meticulous man named Clarence Duval, who had handled Rodrigo’s contracts for years. He carried a briefcase and a frown.

“I’ve reviewed the notice,” he said after scanning the papers. “They’re serious. It’s not a routine check, someone submitted a detailed report, complete with fabricated numbers. The

Tax Board took it at face value.”

“Fabricated?” Miter asked.

“Yes. The report claims you’ve been pocketing undeclared revenue from private catering events and off-record deliveries. It names dates and vendors that don’t exist.”

Kamila’s hands clenched into fists. “Matthew must’ve done it.”

Clarence adjusted his glasses. “Possibly. But without proof, we can’t accuse him. The bigger issue is your filings. The Board cross-checked your declared income with your supplier invoices. They found… discrepancies.”

Miter frowned. “What kind of discrepancies?”

“The numbers don’t add up. Several quarters’ worth of filings are missing signatures and tax stamps. Some were never submitted.”

Kamila looked at her husband, horrified. “Our accountant, he was supposed to handle that!”

“I’m afraid he didn’t,” Clarence said quietly. “I called his office. His assistant confirmed there were backlogs going back almost two years. He’s been renewing your business permit without updating the tax records.”

Miter slumped back in his chair. “How much do we owe?”

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Clarence hesitated before answering. “About four and a half million, including penalties.”

The room spun.

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Kamila reached for her husband’s hand, gripping it tightly. “We can’t pay that,” she whispered. “Not even close.”

Clarence sighed. “If we can prove negligence by your accountant, we might negotiate a reduction or deferment. But that will take time, and you don’t have much. The Board’s giving you thirty days to pay or face a shutdown.”

Miter stared at the table. His reflection shimmered faintly on the polished wood, warped and ghostly.

Thirty days.

Thirty days to save everything.

After the lawyer left, the silence in the office was thick enough to choke on.

Kamila stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the street below. The laughter from the dining room carried faintly upward, cruel in its normalcy.

Miter sat motionless, staring at the notice.

“We can’t let the staff find out,” he said finally. “It’ll crush morale. We’ll keep business as usual until we figure something out.”

“And how do we fix this?” Kamila asked. “We can’t pay. Even if we took that McIntire deal,

Miter cut her off. “I won’t sell our soul for money.”

“This isn’t about pride, Miter!” she snapped, then softened immediately. “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t watch everything we built disappear.”

He looked up at her, his eyes weary but resolute. “Neither can I. But I’ll die before I turn Rodrigo’s into another soulless chain.”

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Eve had been standing outside the door the entire time, frozen. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, she’d only come to bring them lunch, but hearing the despair in their voices made her chest ache.

She backed away quietly, her mind racing,

If the restaurant went under, they’d lose everything, their livelihood, their home, their peace. And she… she’d lose the only people who had ever treated her like family.

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For once, she didn’t think about herself. She thought about them.

Miter’s laughter, Kamila’s warmth, the way they had taken her in without question.

She couldn’t stand by and watch them suffer.

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That evening, the restaurant emptied out slowly. The clatter of dishes faded, replaced by the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Miter sat at the bar, a half-finished cup of coffee cooling beside him. His ledger lay open before him, filled with neat columns of numbers that mocked him now.

Eve approached quietly, drying her hands with a towel. “You should go home and rest, Papa.”

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