“Because that would be—” Jake stops, his jaw going tight. “If McLaren Hotels comes after you legally—which I genuinely don’t believe Patrick would do—then we fight back.”
“With what money?” I laugh through tears, but it comes out hysterical. “I don’t even have a job anymore!”
“With my money. You’re my sister. Nobody, not Patrick fucking McLaren or Steve bloody Richards, gets to destroy you while I’m breathing.”
“What if they say I did it deliberately? What if they think I sabotaged everything because of what happened between us?”
“Then they’re idiots.” Jake grabs my shoulders gently. “Georgie, look at me. You’re the most honest person I know. You couldn’t be vindictive if you tried. Anyone who knows you for five minutes knows that.”
“Patrick doesn’t know me though,” I whisper, fresh tears spilling. “He never really did, did he?”
Jake grimaces. “This is probably just bureaucratic nonsense. Tick-box exercise for the suspension, cover-their-arses audit stuff. Big companies do this all the time. Remember, he didn’t fire you. You quit. Stop worrying.”
I nod, still shaking.
“What do I even wear to get legally destroyed?” I ask. It’s meant to be a joke, but it comes out pathetic.
“Anything that makes you feel strong. And remember, I’ll be right there. I might need my own lawyer after this because when I see Patrick, I’m going to want to punch him again. Harder this time. Maybe repeatedly. For not believing you, for the security guards, for making you cry, for—”
“Jake, you can’t punch him in his own building,” I give a small, watery laugh through tears. “They have cameras. And more security guards. And expensive lawyers who went to Oxford.”
“Fine. I’ll punch him outside.”
I try to smile but fresh tears spill over. Because Riri’s not here to help me choose what to wear. Because Patrick is now the one destroying me. Because I have to walk back into that building where everyone saw me escorted out like a criminal.
I go upstairs to Riri’s room and sink into her reading chair.
Her perfume still clings faintly to the fabric. Or maybe I’m imagining it because I need it to be there.
“Make me brave,” I whisper to the empty room. “Just for a few hours. Just enough to get through this.”
I stare at the screen, so much adrenaline pumping through my veins I’m shaking. All this rage—I don’t know how criminals handle it.
I’ve always been the good girl. The one who says “no worries!” when people steal my lunch from the office fridge. The one who accepts blame to keep the peace.
Well, look at me now.
I’ve just hacked into McLaren Hotels’ IT system.
And this time, I’m not apologizing for it.
The terminal window fills with data as I navigate through their supposedly secure servers. Craig’s digital fingerprints are everywhere, sloppy and arrogant. He’s not half as clever as he thinks he is. Audit trails partially deleted but not overwritten. Amateur hour.
“Got you, you misogynist prick,” I mutter, screenshotting everything.
The evidence is beautiful in its simplicity. The deleted emails from my original warnings, sitting pretty in the backup server he forgot existed.
I know what this is about. Craig was disgusted by the rumors; he thought I was trying to jump the queue in the way young women do, by opening their legs.
He’d been so desperate for promotion, his ego finally overruled his last brain cell.
I document everything, building my case methodically, with triple redundancy: screenshots, server logs, metadata.
“I’ve had enough of this!” I announce to my empty bedroom, practicing my court voice. It comes out squeaky. I try again, dropping it an octave. “I’ll see you in court for unfair dismissal.”
Better. Needs a bit more gravitas and maybe less tremble.
I pull up YouTube and do some research. “Body language for women in male-dominated fields.” Then “How to project authority when you’re 5’3”.” And finally, “Legal phrases that make you sound competent.”
