“What? That’s not true! He told me to deploy it immediately. There should be emails. I documented everything—”
“We’ll review all communications,” Sarah cuts in. “For now, you need to hand over your laptop and any company devices. You’re not to access systems or contact colleagues until further notice.”
My laptop. My documentation. My proof.
I grip the strap of my bag like I might snap it in half. My hands won’t stop shaking. My whole body won’t stop shaking.
Unless... oh God. Unless he’s already deleted them from the server. He has admin access. He could make it all disappear. Then all that’s left are the logs showing my deployment—apparently unauthorized. Just Georgie Button from IT, going rogue and taking down an entire hotel chain.
“When will I know?” I ask, voice small.
“The investigation will take as long as necessary,” Lindsey says, not unkindly but not warmly either. “We’ll be in touch.”
Oh my God. He fucking lied. Rewrote the whole thing. My change did cause the failure, but he ordered it, he pushed me, and now he’s buried me with it.
Here’s the problem: Craig can talk the talk. He’s been spinning technical jargon into executive-speak for twenty years, making himself sound indispensable when half the time he doesn’t evenunderstand what we’re building. The board thinks he’s brilliant. Patrick trusts him.
Me? I sound like exactly what I am: a junior developer who’s been crying too much and sleeping too little. My voice shakes when I’m nervous. I over-explain when I’m passionate about something. I say “sorry” before sentences that don’t need apologies. I apologize to fish, for fuck’s sake. I care too much, and it shows, making me seem emotional rather than professional.
My throat burns. “Does Mr. McLaren know about the incident?”
“Of course,” Sarah replies.
“Does he know about...” I swallow hard. “Me being suspended?”
“Yes.”
I press the heel of my hand hard against my chest, like I can force air into my lungs if I just push hard enough.
It doesn’t work. My breath comes in pathetic little stutters.
“In fact,” Lindsey says, closing the folder, “Mr. McLaren would like a word before you leave. We’re to escort you there.”
I stare at her. Numb. My brain has stopped processing information. It’s just static now.
Escort me. Like I’m a criminal.
“He’s in London?”
Patrick knows. And he isn’t here, fighting for me, demanding the truth. He’s listening to Craig. He’s choosing Craig.
With a single decision, he’s taking away the only thing that’s mine: pride in my work. The one thing I could hold up and say:Even when everything else in my life is falling apart, even when men don’t want me and my aunt dies and my brother treats me like a child, I can do this. I’m good at this.
If they take that too, then what’s left of me?
A woman who keeps giving men everything she has, only to watch them walk away with the pieces.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Every floor gets a show
Patrick
My office feels likea war zone. Siobhan from PR juggles three phones, barking into one while two others flash on hold. Fraser’s on calls with every property manager like his life depends on it. My senior team’s in full crisis mode. Everyone’s moving, hustling, scrambling.
None of it’s enough.
My phone won’t stop buzzing. I want to throw the damn thing through the window.
