“Two point eight million dollars? You really expect me to believe this money belongs to you?”
The blonde bank manager held the check between two perfectly manicured fingers, her voice carrying across the magnificent marble banking hall.
Every conversation stopped.
A businessman standing near the private banking counter turned around. Two elderly customers looked up from their paperwork. A young teller froze behind her computer, and a security officer near the entrance slowly straightened.
Standing across the counter was an extraordinarily beautiful thirty-eight-year-old Black American woman with exceptionally rich, deep ebony-black skin, captivating almond-shaped brown eyes, beautifully sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and a breathtaking hourglass figure.
Her hair was arranged in an immaculate high sculpted bun, revealing enormous circular gold earrings.
She wore an extraordinary designer gown unlike anything the bank employees had seen that morning: a structured black lace corset bodice with elegant sheer detailing, long transparent black opera gloves, and an enormous lime-green satin skirt gathered into dramatic sculptural folds around her hips.
The luxurious fabric swept toward the polished marble floor, glowing beneath the bright overhead lights.
She looked like a woman who had stepped directly from a high-fashion editorial into one of Manhattan's most prestigious banking institutions.
But the manager had already decided she did not belong.
“I'd like you to verify the check before making accusations,” the woman replied.
Her voice was controlled.
Almost too controlled.
The blonde manager gave a cruel little laugh.
“Ma'am, I've been in banking for twenty-one years. I know a suspicious transaction when I see one.”
The Black woman looked toward the document.
“Then follow the verification procedure.”
The manager narrowed her eyes.
“Don't tell me how to do my job.”
“I'm asking you to do it.”
Several customers began watching more closely.