The alarm blared at 5:30 AM. I silenced it with a swift tap and sat up, already fully awake. The hiking incident played on repeat in my mind—James's dismissive tone, Nyomi's smug smile as she laced up my boots. Today was Monday. Today, everything would change.

I dressed with particular care—a tailored charcoal suit that made me feel armored, pearl earrings that had been my mother's, and the Louboutins I reserved for board meetings. Not for James's benefit, but for my own.

"Miranda," I called as I strode through the empty office, my heels clicking against marble. "I need you to pull all of James's access credentials."

My assistant looked up, coffee in hand. "All of them?"

"Every system, every project, every communication channel." I set my bag down. "And call security. They'll need to escort him out."

Miranda's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. "On it."

For the next hour, we worked in focused silence. I revoked James's access to our client management system, removed him from project teams, deleted his permissions for the company credit card portal. Each click felt like cutting a rope that had been slowly strangling me.

"Done," Miranda said finally, sliding a printed report across my desk. "He's locked out of everything except his personal email."

"Perfect timing," I replied, glancing at the security camera feed on my computer. James had just walked through the front door, coffee in hand, Nyomi trailing behind him.

I watched as he waved confidently to the receptionist, heading straight for the elevator. He looked so certain, so entitled. My finger hovered over the intercom button.

"Security to the executive floor," I said calmly.

James burst through my office door ten minutes later, his face flushed with anger and confusion.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "Your security won't let me access my desk!"

I looked up from my computer, deliberately slow. "That's because you don't have a desk here anymore."

"Don't be ridiculous." He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "We had a fight, that's all. You can't just—"

"I can," I cut him off. "And I have."

Two security guards appeared in the doorway. James's eyes darted between them and me.

"Ellianna, this is insane," he hissed, lowering his voice. "What about everything we've built together?"

"Built?" I echoed, allowing myself a small smile. "You mean what I've built while you took credit?"

His face darkened. "You'll regret this."

"I doubt that," I replied, nodding to the guards. "Please escort Mr. Wheeler out. And Miranda will mail his personal belongings to the address he provides."

---

James's first call came at 7:43 AM. I sent it to voicemail. The second at 7:45. The third at 7:46.

By noon, he'd called seventeen times and sent twenty-three text messages ranging from angry accusations to pathetic pleas.

*You can't do this to me.*

*Baby, please just talk to me.*

*I know you're upset but this is extreme.*

*Fine. Have it your way. You'll never find anyone who loves you like I do.*

I blocked his number at message twenty-four.

"He's outside your building," Miranda reported at 2 PM. "Security called up."

"Call them back and tell them to remove him," I replied without looking up from my laptop.

By Thursday, James had escalated to showing up at my favorite coffee shop in the morning, then my gym in the afternoon. I changed my routines—Starbucks instead of Blue Bottle, yoga studio instead of gym.

"Has he tried to contact you?" I asked Miranda on Friday.

"Not directly," she said carefully. "But Nyomi's been posting supportive messages on Instagram. About standing by friends through tough times."

Of course she was.

---

The spare key. I'd forgotten about the spare key.

I returned home Saturday evening to find my apartment door slightly ajar. For a moment, I considered calling security or even the police. Instead, I pushed the door open silently.

The scent hit me first—James's cologne mixed with something floral. Nyomi's perfume.

Then I heard them. In my bedroom.

"James, she's going to lose her mind," Nyomi's voice drifted out, followed by laughter.

"Good," James replied. "Let her see what she's missing."

I stepped into my bedroom doorway. The sheets were tangled, my silk pillowcase discarded on the floor. And there, on my nightstand, lay a single diamond earring—Nyomi's.

"James," I said quietly.

They both looked up, startled but not particularly concerned.

"Ellianna," James recovered quickly, sitting up. "We were just... I thought maybe we could talk things through properly."

Nyomi stretched languidly, deliberately taking her time. "Oh, honey. Don't you like what we've done with the place?"

I noticed my expensive skincare products scattered across the bathroom counter, tubes squeezed and bottles uncapped.

"Get out," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

"But we're having such a nice time," Nyomi pouted, reaching for my silk robe hanging on the back of the door.

"Get. Out." Each word was ice.

James stood, pulling on his jeans. "Ellianna, be reasonable. This is still my space too."

"No," I replied, stepping back into the hallway. "It's not."

As they dressed and gathered their things, Nyomi deliberately left her earring on my pillow—a final mark of territory.

I waited until they were gone before calling maintenance.

"New locks," I said simply. "All of them."

I was reviewing the company's quarterly finances when Miranda knocked on my office door.

"Come in," I called, not looking up from the spreadsheets on my screen.

"Ellianna, I need you to see something," Miranda said, her voice unusually tense.

She placed a folder on my desk and opened it to a series of highlighted expense reports.

"I was going through the project budgets to cut any James-related expenses," she explained, "but these numbers don't add up."

I studied the pages, my finger tracing the columns of figures. "The margins on the Westlake project are off by nearly twenty percent."

"Exactly." Miranda pulled up a chair beside me. "And it's not just Westlake. Look at these."

She flipped to another page. The discrepancies were subtle but unmistakable once you knew what to look for.

"Someone's been siphoning information to competitors," I murmured, the realization settling like ice in my stomach.

Miranda nodded grimly. "And look who had access to all these accounts."

She didn't need to say the name.

---

"James Wheeler accessed these files at 2:17 AM on March 12th," Daniel Hayes, our forensic accountant, pointed to the screen. "Then again at 3:42 AM on March 29th."

We were in the conference room with our legal team, surrounded by printouts and coffee cups. It was 11 PM, but nobody was thinking about leaving.

"He wasn't just looking," I said, scanning the report. "He was copying entire client lists."

"And strategic plans," added Victoria, our head counsel. "The timing matches perfectly with when our competitors started undercutting our proposals."

I felt sick. Not just angry—physically ill. For months, James had been selling us out from the inside.

"How much?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

Daniel adjusted his glasses. "Over two hundred thousand dollars in compromised deals and stolen intellectual property. And that's just what we can prove so far."

The room fell silent. That amount made it a federal crime.

"We need more," I said finally. "I want every email, every file, every keystroke he ever made on company equipment."

The team nodded. This was war.

---

The evidence trail was damning. James had been thorough in his betrayal, but he'd also been careless.

"He forwarded confidential emails to his personal account," Miranda reported the next morning, dark circles under her eyes from the all-night investigation. "Look at this one—he literally wrote 'this will hurt Ellianna's team' in the subject line."

I read the email, feeling my jaw tighten with each word.

"And here," Miranda continued, pulling up security footage on her laptop. "This is him photographing documents during his 'late-night work sessions.'"

The video showed James casually holding his phone over sensitive proposals, smiling slightly as he worked.

"He thought he was untouchable," I said quietly.

"The worst part," Miranda hesitated, "is that he started doing this months ago. Before you broke up with him."

I closed my eyes briefly. So it hadn't been about Nyomi after all. Not really. James had been planning to betray me from the beginning.

---

"He's here again," Miranda said, peering through the blinds of my office window toward the building across the street.

I didn't need to ask who she meant. James and Nyomi had been making a spectacle of themselves at Canlis, the upscale restaurant where my colleagues often dined.

"Third time this week," I noted dryly.

"They're not exactly subtle," Miranda observed. "Nyomi's wearing that diamond bracelet she posted about yesterday."

I glanced at the Instagram photo Miranda had screenshotted. Nyomi's wrist sparkled with a Cartier bracelet I recognized immediately—James had "given" it to me last Christmas, though I'd later discovered he'd charged it to the company account.

"Look at her caption," Miranda read aloud: "'When you upgrade from basic to premium. #newbeginnings #worthit'."

The photo showed them at a corner table, champagne glasses raised in a toast. The location tag was deliberate—a restaurant I frequented.

"She's tagged three of your board members in the comments," Miranda added.

I stared at the image, at Nyomi's triumphant smile and James's possessive hand on her waist. They thought they'd won.

"Miranda," I said slowly, "get Daniel Hayes on the phone. Tell him I'm ready to move forward with charges."

As Miranda hurried out, I turned back to my computer, pulling up the folder of evidence we'd compiled. James had stolen from me, betrayed me, and now he was flaunting it.

He thought he could humiliate me publicly while profiting from my company's secrets.

He was about to learn how wrong he was.