Too Late to Beg for My Return

Summary

Sienna was never particularly good at math.

Every time she delivered a batch of wild foraged mushrooms to my restaurant, her invoices had an extra zero tacked onto the total. A nine-hundred-dollar crate of seasonal morels would magically become nine thousand.

For three years, out of loyalty to a college friendship that spanned a decade, I never said a word. Every single month, I signed the requisitions and authorized the direct transfers at ten times the market rate. I thought I was helping an old friend find her footing.