The marble beneath my heels rings with each deliberate step, the sound echoing sharp and final through the executive wing. Fifteen floors above the rink where my brother guards the net, we move through this corporate stratosphere with the grim determination of a legal team heading into trial.
My briefcase feels heavy in my grip—not with weight, but with power. Inside lies months of evidence, meticulously documented patterns of sabotage, irregularities that paint a picture so clear even a corporate lawyer couldn't deny it. This isn't speculation or emotion. This is data. Facts. The language Frank Miller speaks fluently.
"Remember," I murmur to my flanking allies, "we lead with the timeline, follow with the financial trail, close with legal exposure. Clean. Professional. Irrefutable."
Brynn adjusts her own folder against her chest like armor, practically humming with the anticipation of a story that could reshape how this league treats its female employees. "The systematic pattern alone should be enough to sink her."
Easton's legal pad is covered in bullet points we've rehearsed until they're muscle memory. His massive frame radiates the controlled energy of someone who's traded his goalie gloves for a different kind of protection. "Just stick to facts. No emotion. Let the evidence speak."
The elevator doors slide open, revealing the marble-and-mahogany fortress where careers are made and destroyed with equal indifference. Championship banners line the walls—testaments to Frank Miller's ability to build winners. Today, I'm here to prove I'm worth building around.
Miller's assistant doesn't glance up from her monitor as we approach, her manicured fingers dancing across the keyboard with the efficient disinterest of someone guarding access to immense power. Everything about this level screamspower—from the polished surfaces that reflect your own insignificance to the hushed conversations happening behind glass walls where men in expensive suits decide the fates of people like me.
"Mr. Miller is ready for you," she announces without lifting her eyes. "First door on the left."
We move in formation down the corridor, and I catch glimpses through transparent offices of other executives conducting the business of sport—budget meetings, contract negotiations, the casual wielding of influence by people who've never had to justify their right to be in these rooms. Soon, I'll be back among them. This time with the added credibility of having survived an assassination attempt and emerged stronger.
Frank Miller's office feels designed to project masculine authority, meant to make visitors feel appropriately small before the seat of corporate power. Championship trophies form a gleaming perimeter around his massive mahogany desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Minneapolis skyline, a vast panorama signifying his domain. Team photos document decades of success—proof that he can build champions or destroy careers with equal efficiency.
Miller himself occupies the large leather chair behind his desk with the casual confidence of someone who's never doubted his right to be here. Mid-fifties, silver hair that probably costs more to maintain than most people's monthly salary, wearing a suit that announces its custom origins without vulgarity. He doesn't stand when we enter—an obvious display of control.
"Ms. McKenzie." His voice carries the practiced warmth of someone who's mastered sounding concerned while feelingnothing. Professional sympathy, delivered with boardroom precision. "Please, have a seat. I can give you fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes. For a case that could reshape how this organization treats its female employees. For evidence that took months to compile and could prevent future victims from suffering Vivian's systematic sabotage. But I don't flinch. Fifteen minutes is more than enough time for facts to speak louder than prejudice.
I settle into the chair across from his fortress of a desk, placing my briefcase on the polished surface with the deliberate care of someone presenting evidence in court. The leather feels warm under my palms—not from nerves, but from anticipation. This is my element. Complex problems, compelling narratives, solutions that make powerful men feel intelligent for agreeing with me.
"Mr. Miller, thank you for making time in your schedule." My voice carries the crisp authority I've perfected over years of commanding boardrooms. "I'm here to present documented evidence of systematic workplace sabotage by a senior member of your executive team."
His eyebrows rise slightly—the first flicker of genuine interest I've seen. Good. He's engaged.
"That's a serious accusation, Ms. McKenzie."
"It's a documented pattern." I open my briefcase and slide the first folder across his desk with smooth precision. "This contains timeline analysis showing eight distinct instances where Vivian Lamore deliberately undermined my work, altered reports, and fed false information to external parties."
The folder lies between us, stark against the polished wood. Inside: spreadsheets correlating her calendar with suspicious incidents, email threads showing impossible coincidences, financial records revealing strategic budgetreallocations that always seemed to disadvantage my projects. It's not just compelling—it's overwhelming.
Miller glances at the folder but doesn't open it. Instead, he leans back in his chair and presses his fingertips together—a gesture that somehow makes his office feel even larger and my evidence even smaller.
"Ms. McKenzie, before we dive into workplace dynamics, perhaps we should address the obvious issue." His tone shifts, becoming paternal in the most condescending way possible. "Your relationship with Mr. Sullivan, in direct violation of company policy, created this entire situation."
The pivot is expected but still jarring—a sudden cross-examination when I thought I was making opening statements. I recover quickly, reaching for the second folder.
"My personal life is irrelevant to the evidence of corporate sabotage," I state, pulling out documentation that transforms speculation into certainty. "Brynn, would you walk Mr. Miller through the investigative timeline?"
Brynn straightens, focused and ready. "The pattern isn't just unmistakable—it forms the basis for a story I'm prepared to publish. The anonymous tip that started this gossip campaign was sent from a public Wi-Fi network. My sources provided the IP address and timestamp."
She spreads photographs across his desk with the calm confidence of someone who's toppled bigger men with less evidence. Coffee shop receipts. Time-stamped security footage. Corporate expense reports showing Vivian Lamore's company card used at the exact location nine minutes before the tip was sent.
"That's not workplace dynamics, Mr. Miller. That's documented libel with clear intent to damage my professional reputation."
Miller studies the photographs with detached interest—as if scanning a routine weather report. His pen taps a steady rhythm against the desk, the sound echoing in the vast, quiet office. Not consideration. Impatience.
"Ms. Callahan, I appreciate your investigative enthusiasm." His voice carries a dismissive politeness, as if indulging a child. "But what I'm seeing is a series of coincidences and assumptions. Nothing that would withstand legal scrutiny."
The casual dismissal lands hard, a sharp sting. Coincidences? I lean forward, pulling out the financial analysis—months of work distilled into undeniable patterns.
"Mr. Miller, these aren't assumptions. These are budget reallocations, strategic resource withdrawals, and documented interference with client relationships. The pattern—"
