The conference room exploded into chaos.

Murmurs rippled down the table, quick and sharp. Coworkers glanced between Sloane and me, whispering behind cupped hands.

Sloane’s brow pinched together in immediate disgust. She leaned against the podium, tapping her manicured nails on the wood.

"Isla, I know you hold a grudge against me," Sloane said, pitching her voice loud enough to slice over the chatter. "Personal feelings belong outside the workplace. Can you please learn to separate them?"

"Separate them?" I stepped out from behind my seat. "You took every single slide."

Director Morrison leaned forward, his mouth pulled into a grim, displeased crease. He swiveled in his chair, his glare landing directly on the back row.

"Ethan," Morrison barked. "You assisted on this initiative. What do you know about this?"

Ethan stood up from the shadows. His face was entirely blank, bleached of color. He kept his eyes locked firmly on the department head, refusing to cast a single glance in my direction.

"I don't know what she’s talking about, Director," Ethan answered in a hushed, flat mumble. "The proposal belongs to Sloane. She drafted it from scratch."

A violent ringing pierced my ears.

The blood rushed to my head so fast my hands moved before my thoughts could stop them. Three strides carried me across the carpet. I reached out and gripped the collar of his dress shirt in my fist, yanking him forward until he nearly tripped over his chair.

"I spent an entire month slaving over this at the dining table!" I yelled right in his face. "You watched me draft every line! Are you blind, Ethan?!"

"Let go of him!" Sloane’s hand clamped hard around my forearm, tearing me away with surprising force.

I stumbled back a half-step, shaking off her fingers.

"Look at yourself," Sloane sneered, her chin held high as she blocked Ethan with her shoulder. "You’re an entry-level intern. How long have you even worked here? You think you could formulate a high-level expansion model? If you’re going to invent lies, at least make them believable!"

Several people around the conference table nodded, chiming in with soft assents.

A cold, dry laugh broke from my throat.

I brushed my lapel flat, stepping right into Sloane's personal space.

"You should have stolen it a little later, Sloane," I said, my tone turning completely steady.

Sloane blinked, thrown off by the change in my posture. "What are you talking about?"

"The file Ethan dug out of my drive wasn't my final draft," I stated, pulling my own laptop from the briefcase and flipping the screen toward the table. "He gave you the rough draft. Did you bother checking the core figures before you pasted your name on it?"

"The numbers are verified—"

"No, they aren't," I interrupted, cutting her off cleanly. "Let’s start with slide four. You projected Whitmore’s online active user base at thirteen million."

"That’s the standard figure from the quarterly public report," Sloane shot back defensively.

"It’s an inflated figure," I fired right back, tapping the keyboard to bring up the internal audit database. "I ran the server logs two weeks ago. Once you strip out duplicate registrations, bot networks, and dormant accounts, the real count is exactly nine million. Based on nine million, your partnership acquisition fee is ridiculously overpriced. You're throwing company capital down the drain."

Sloane’s lips parted slightly, but nothing came out.

"Second," I pressed on, stepping closer to Director Morrison and turning the screen toward him. "The regional logistics vendor you recommended on slide eighteen. Did you run basic financial due diligence on their parent company?"

Sloane swallowed hard. "They have tier-one capacity—"

"They defaulted on a massive balance last November," I told the room, projecting my voice across every row. "Their operating accounts are frozen by creditors. Their cash flow could snap at any second. If we ink a supply contract with them, regional distribution collapses within forty-eight hours."

I turned my head back to Sloane. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts.

"You stole the deck," I whispered harshly. "And you didn't even understand what you took."

Director Morrison’s face darkened instantly. The jovial pride from five minutes ago vanished into stone.

"Let me see that," Morrison commanded, snapping his fingers.

He snatched my laptop, spinning it around to review the data logs, then jerked Sloane’s printed brief toward him, comparing the numbers line by line. The room fell into dead, suffocating silence. Even Ethan stood frozen against the wall, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

For two agonizing minutes, the only sound was the rustle of turning pages and the tap of Morrison's heavy ring on the mahogany table.

Finally, Morrison slammed the binder shut.

"The default record is authentic," Morrison said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. He looked up, fixing his eyes squarely on the podium. "Sloane. Explain this."

All the color drained out of Sloane’s face. She swayed on her heels, catching the edge of the wooden lectern to stay steady.

"Director, that... that isn't..." Her voice cracked into an unsteady shake. "There must be an oversight in the data integration, I can explain—"

"Enough," Morrison cut her off, waving a hand in disgust. He shoved the paperwork aside, pushed his chair back, and stood up. He pointed a finger at me. "Isla. Bring your full proposal to my office right now."

He grabbed his tablet and marched out of the room, letting the heavy door swing shut with a loud click.

The meeting disintegrated immediately. Coworkers gathered their notebooks in utter silence, casting frantic sideways glances toward the podium before practically scurrying out into the corridor.

Ethan grabbed his laptop, avoiding every gaze, and slipped out the side exit without a single word.

I gathered my black portfolio from the table, tucking the strap over my shoulder.

"Isla!"

Sloane’s screech stopped me near the doorway. She stormed down the aisle, her face flushed with fury, her jaw grinding tight.

"Don't get cocky," she spat, her eyes flashing with pure hatred. "You think you won something today? Marcus Reed has backed my family for years! This little slip won't do a single thing to my standing here!"

I stopped, turning my head to look at her.

"You're nothing but a nobody from the lower pool," Sloane snarled, leaning close, her voice a poisonous hiss. "One phone call from my family, and you won't just lose this proposal. You'll be fired and blacklisted from every corporate firm in the city. Just wait and see what happens to you."

I didn't answer. I didn't even blink.

I simply turned around and walked out into the executive hallway, leaving her ranting behind me.

Down the corridor, the elevator doors chimed, sliding open with a smooth hiss.

I stepped forward to press the button, but my foot paused on the carpet.

A tall man in a dark charcoal suit stood at the very end of the hall, near the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows. He held an open leather folder, skimming through a stack of departmental memos. He possessed a sharp, striking jawline, clean-shaven and severe, carrying an air of absolute authority that made the passing staff step aside with bowed heads.

Julian Ashford.

The newly appointed CEO who had arrived at headquarters barely three days ago.

He must have caught the sound of my footsteps.

Julian lifted his head. His dark, discerning gaze cut across the carpet, moving straight past the dispersing employees and locking squarely onto me.

He shut the folder with a muted snap.

"That proposal," Julian spoke, his deep baritone carrying clearly down the corridor, neither loud nor quiet. "Did you write it?"