Patrick’s jaw tightens. The lawyers lean forward.
“Now,” I continue, pulling out my next document like I’m dealing cards, “let’s discuss how we can rectify this stressful situation.”
I emphasize “stressful” just enough to make the HR representative shift uncomfortably.
“First, a proper severance package.” I slide over my calculations, complete with highlighted Employment Rights Act 1996 references and three comparable tribunal cases from the last year. “Two years of service, my unused holiday pay—which is considerable since you made me too anxious to take time off—and compensation for wrongful dismissal and defamation of character.”
Deep breath. Don’t let them see your hands shake.
“Second, a written apology from McLaren Hotels, acknowledging that I was not responsible for the system failure and that my work on IRIS was exemplary. To be posted on the company intranet where everyone who saw me escorted out can see it.”
One of the lawyers opens his mouth. I keep going because I watched three hours of legal drama clips onYouTubeand I know you don’t let them interrupt. Power move, Georgie. Channel your innerHarvey Specter.
“Third, a reference letter. And not some generic HR template. A proper letter that explicitly states my technical excellence and innovative contributions to McLaren Hotels.”
Patrick doesn’t even glance at my severance calculation. His lawyer snatches it up, nostrils flaring as he reads the number.
Yeah, that’s right, lawyer bitch. I’m very good at maths when I’m angry.
“Done,” Patrick says quietly.
I blink. Once. Twice.
That’s... it?
No negotiation? No counter-offer that’s insulting but technically legal? No threatening me with their army of lawyers?
“All of it,” he adds, still not looking at the numbers. “Whatever you’ve asked for. Done.”
I stare at him. Then at Jake. Then back at Patrick.
“I’m sorry, what?” My voice comes out strangled. “You’re just... agreeing? To all of it?”
“Yes.”
We stare at each other across the table. My heart’s cracking apart because I got everything I demanded except the one thingI actually wanted—for him to have believed me in the first place. For him to love me.
He stares at me with an expression I can’t read—jaw rigid, muscle in his cheek pulsing. His hands are pressed flat against the table like he’s physically holding himself in place.
“Good,” I say.
His eyes never leave mine. “The suspension was wrong. The investigation was wrong.Iwas wrong. I’m truly sorry.”
My lip trembles.
But sorry doesn’t undo security marching me out. Sorry doesn’t take back him choosing Craig over me. Sorry doesn’t erase standing in his office while he asked if I’d sabotaged his empire out of spite.
It’s such a Patrick response—taking responsibility but keeping it professional, apologizing without getting emotional about it. Even though I can see from his exhausted face that this has been eating at him, he’s not going to have some big emotional moment in front of lawyers and HR.
Just a tired man admitting he made a mistake, in the most controlled way possible.
“Is that it then?” Jake snaps. “You drag her here just to say sorry?”
“No,” Patrick says quietly. “That’s not why you’re here.” His eyes meet mine again. “I recognize there are significant systemic issues within McLaren Hotels that I’ve allowed to persist. Cultural problems I’ve either ignored or enabled. I’m committed to addressing them. But that’s not the purpose of today’s meeting.”
The lawyer I don’t recognize opens his briefcase, pulling out documents. This is it. This is where they make me sign something saying I won’t sue them. NDAs. The “please don’t tell anyone we’re a toxic workplace” paperwork.
McLaren’s lead lawyer, Tom, says something, but I miss it completely. I’m still processing that Craig’s gone, that people finally know I wasn’t lying.
