I don’t understand the words initially. “I—what?”
He doesn’t blink. “We received another anonymous tip late last night. It claims you’ve been compromised by the Conti family and that you’re carrying Luca Conti’s child.” He holds my eyes through the camera. “Is that true?”
Air stalls in my lungs. I open my mouth and nothing comes out.
He takes the silence as an answer. “Then I have no choice. Your employment with the U.S. Attorney’s Office is terminated. I will be reporting you to the Office of Professional Responsibility and the bar’s disciplinary board for misconduct.” His tone stays even, almost flat. “This is not personal. It’s about the integrity of the office.”
I grip the edge of the table to keep my hands from shaking. “Miles—”
He keeps going. “Do you have any case files outside of your office? Physical or digital. Notes, draft briefs, discovery, anything.”
“No,” I say. “Everything is on the system or in my office.”
It’s true. Not wanting to deal with work after our meeting yesterday, I left everything at the office before heading out.
“Good.” He nods once. “Security will box your personal items. Provide a mailing address, and we’ll have them shipped. Your building access has been revoked. IT will be barring you access to this laptop as soon as this meeting is over. You will send it back as soon as possible. HR will send separation paperwork by end of day.”
I swallow. “You didn’t even ask for my side.”
His jaw ticks. “Your side should have been disclosed the second there was a conflict.” He pauses and just looks for a moment. “I could’ve helped you, Elena. If you had just told me.” He pulls in a sharp breath. For a second, he looks sorry.
Then it disappears, and he’s the hard ass federal prosecutor again. “If you retain counsel, direct communications through them. Do not access any office systems. Do not contact witnesses or agents. That’s all. I wish you luck.”
The screen blinks as he ends the call.
The platform returns to my own reflection and the black square where his video was. I don’t move. The cursor wakes and goes still again. My laptop fan hums.
A moment later, I’m logged out and staring at a blinking cursor that won’t accept my password anymore.
I sit there anyway, hands in my lap, facing nothing.
It’s gone. The cases, the courtroom, the late nights, the wins and losses, the belief that all of it added up to something solid. Even if I’m not disbarred, the whisper will follow me wherever I go. Compromised. Disgraced. The one who crossed the line.
I try to list next steps—call a lawyer, call the board, write down what happened last night, save the garage footage—but my mind won’t organize. It’s just empty. I press my thumb into my own skin until it leaves a mark.
I told myself I could hold both things at once: my work and this new life. I was wrong. The board will read an anonymous tip and write the rest of my story for me.
I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just sit and feel the life I built come apart in my hands.
There’s a soft knock, and then his voice through the door. “Elena.”
I blink like I’m waking. The screen has been blank for… I don’t know how long. My hands are in my lap; fingers pressed into the grooves of my knuckles.
I don’t answer.
The latch clicks. He steps in and stops a few feet from the table like he’s approaching a ledge. White walls, one chair, me. His eyes take in the closed laptop, the way I’m sitting.
“How did it go?” he asks quietly. “Did you report it?”
“I didn’t have a chance to,” I whisper. “I was fired. Effective immediately.”
He doesn’t move for a breath. Then he comes to the table, closes his hand over the lid, and closes it before easing the laptop aside so he can see my face.
“Tell me,” he says.
“Anonymous tip,” I manage. “Said I’ve been compromised and that I’m carrying your child.” I laugh once without humor. “He asked if it was true. I couldn’t answer. He took it as a yes. He’s reporting me to OPR and the Bar. The Office of Professional Responsibility.”
His hand tightens on the edge of the table and releases. “Elena. I’m sorry.”
