After that, she was fair game.
It didn’t take long to spot the pattern. Little things at first. Digital breadcrumbs only an amateur would leave behind. A few well-timed “anonymous tips.”
Then the trail got clearer—board meeting minutes, logistics emails, draft strategy decks, term sheets, memorandums of understanding, simplified forecast spreadsheets, email chains between executives, preliminary due diligence reports...
Everything always found its way into exactly the right inbox or the right hands. Just soon enough for a competitor to strike before Montgomery Clifford & Co. could.
Another win for the competition. Another loss for Montgomery Clifford.
And who was profiting on both ends?
Maya, of course.
She wasn’t reckless. She was careful. Calculated. She used every bit of access she still had.
The deals that slipped through their fingers, the acquisitions that mysteriously collapsed, the competitors that somehow arrived first—all filed under “market coincidence.”
Yeah, right.
Honestly, the entire IT department should’ve been fired. They did a piss-poor job of monitoring access logs.
Her credentials as Colin’s EA were still active even after she’d “changed departments.”
Amateur hour.
But here’s the thing about data: it never really disappears.
All I had to do was dig deep enough. Cross-check timelines. Compare internal losses to external gains.
I still can’t figure out if it was always part of her plan… or if she only did it so she could afford that ridiculous article.
I will never forget the look on Colin’s face when I showed him how much she paid to have it published—and where the money came from.
“What? Did you think people would be lining up to air your dirty laundry for free just because you’re rich, run a fancy company, and look decent in a suit?” I told him. “It’s not like you were having an affair with Shakira,Old Man.”
Now, after watching her being led away, wrists cuffed, shouting about misunderstandings. The irony isn’t lost on me.
She plotted. She built her trap.
And in the end, she’s the one caught in it.
I open my messaging app and pull up his contact—Old Man.
I attach the photo of Maya in handcuffs and type:
Thought you’d appreciate a reminder of what happens when you get sloppy. You’re welcome, btw.
Send.
Then I slip my phone back into my pocket, still smiling as I head toward the elevator.
This time, there’s no rush.
Justice, after all, is worth the wait.
Chapter 20
tragedy repeating itself
