My throat locks. “That can’t be right. I didn’t download anything.”
Devlin’s gaze doesn’t shift. “Outbound data packets were tracked from your machine to a third-party server.” He pauses, his expression turning grave. “That server was traced to Elliot Hargreaves.”
The name smacks the air from my lungs.
“I didn’t—” My voice fractures. “Someone must’ve used my laptop. It could have been unlocked, maybe—once or twice—”
Even as I say it, I hear the cracks in my excuse.
“You’re responsible for your access,” Legal cuts in. “Regardless of who was using the device. That’s protocol.”
But Devlin isn’t done.
“We also found a printed Monarch proposal draft hidden in your desk, marked as confidential. Not authorized for physical removal.”
My mind blanks. The words float past like they belong to someone else.
Austen slides a manila folder across the table. “We also have evidence you met Elliot off-site.”
I hesitate. Then open it.
Photos.
Me and Elliot. Smiling over coffee. His hand on my arm. The goddamn umbrella.
“What? No—no, I only saw him once.” My denial tumbles out too fast. “It wasn’t planned. I didn’t know he’d be there. I haven’t spoken to him since—”
“Don’t,” Chase says.
His voice is quiet, but it stops me cold.
When I look at him, I find nothing there. No trace of the man I was stupidly falling in love with.
“You have one chance to tell the truth, Violet. Right now. I suggest you use it wisely.”
He lifts the picture of us, sharing the stupid cakes, like the sight of it physically pains him, and tosses it in my direction.
“You expect us to believe you just ‘bumped into’ the man who’s been trying to take down everything we built?” His voice cuts deeper, heavy with disbelief. “This isn’t what coincidence looks like.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. It feels like I’m strapped into a train that’s veering off the tracks, and I can’t do a thing to stop it.
“You were the one person,” he says, tone sharp enough to draw blood, “I thought I’d never have to question.”
“I wasn’t working for him.” The words finally scrape out of me. I sit taller in the chair, planting my palm down over the photo. “I didn’t give Elliot anything. I didn’t access the files.”
But the way he looks at me — like I’m already lost — makes my temper flare, anger rising to burn away the ache pressing behind my ribs.
“None of it is true,” I bite out, my voice tightening. “I don’t even—”
“Stop.” Chase’s voice snaps through the room, the harsh sound enough to freeze the air. His hands are gripping the table so tightly his knuckles are white. “Just stop, Violet. This is embarrassing.”
“Excuse me?” My voice spikes, incredulous.
Chase leans back, his expression turning colder, like he’s forcing himself to feel nothing at all.
“This whole conversation is embarrassing, Violet,” he says, each word a deliberate slice. “For you, for me—for everyone who thought you were better than this.”
The words hit harder than a slap. I feel the heat rush under my skin, the hurt blistering into fury.
