Chapter 4 - The 42nd Floor ConfrontationThe private elevator whisked me up to the forty-second floor in absolute silence. When the doors slid open, I stepped out onto plush navy carpeting that muffled the sound of my heels. Conference Room B was a massive glass-walled enclosure overlooking the Boston Harbor, its interior dominated by a polished mahogany table surrounded by leather executive chairs.
Through the clear glass walls, I saw them.
Luke was pacing back and forth behind the head of the table, his tie loosened, his hair disheveled, shouting into his phone while jabbing a finger at an open laptop. Sitting awkwardly in one of the guest chairs was Camellia, nervously clutching a lukewarm paper cup of coffee, still wrapped in the oversized charcoal blazer.
I swiped my security badge at the turnstile, and the heavy glass door clicked open.
The sound of my heels hitting the hardwood perimeter of the room made Luke spin around. When he saw me standing there, looking immaculate, composed, and completely unbothered, the color drained entirely from his face.
"Clover?" he gasped, dropping his phone onto the table. It clattered loudly against the wood. "How—how did you get here? You weren't on the train! I checked the passenger manifest through corporate travel!"
"Private flight, Luke. Some of us actually invest in our own mobility," I said calmly, walking over to the opposite end of the table and resting my hands on the back of a high-backed chair.
"You—you locked the shared drive!" Luke rushed forward, his voice pitching up in frantic desperation, his eyes bloodshot and wide. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The entire pitch deck is inaccessible! The financial models won't render without your encryption key! Arthur Sterling is going to walk into this room in fifteen minutes, and I have nothing on my screen!"
"You have Camellia," I remarked smoothly, glancing over at the intern who was now shrinking back into her chair, clutching the blazer tighter around her shoulders. "She looks like she’s very good at... keeping you comfortable during transit."
"Clover, stop this right now!" Luke hissed, grabbing the edge of the table and leaning across it. His veneer of polished corporate charm was completely shattered, exposing the weak, terrified opportunist underneath. "We’re getting married in three weeks! My entire reputation at the firm is riding on this acquisition! If I fail here, senior partnership is off the table, and my bonuses are wiped out! Unblock the files. Now."
"Your reputation?" I laughed, the sound cold and sharp enough to cut glass. "Luke, you haven't had a reputation built on merit since the day I started writing your reports for you. Every pitch you've given, every client you've charmed, every promotion you’ve bragged about—it was all subsidized by my labor."
"That's not true—"
"And as for our wedding," I reached into my tote bag, pulled out the zippered pouch, and tossed it across the polished mahogany table. It slid across the wood and bumped squarely against his coffee cup. "You can keep the ring. I already canceled the vendors, froze the deposits, and notified your parents that their son’s career implosion is a direct result of his inability to keep his hands off the interns."
Luke stared at the pouch as if it contained a venomous snake. His hands began to shake uncontrollably. "You... you canceled the wedding? Without telling me?"
"Consider it mutual," I said, checking my watch. "Now, I suggest you grab your intern and your bruised ego and clear out of this room. Mr. Sterling will be here in five minutes, and he requested a private consultation with the lead architect of the Apex-Vanguard model."
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"You can't do this!" Camellia suddenly piped up, her voice trembling with indignation as she stood from her chair. "You’re being cruel! Luke loves you! We were just—it was just exhaustion—"
"Quiet, Camellia," I snapped, turning my gaze onto her with a sharpness that made her flinch. "Adults are conducting business. Go find a train back to Chicago."
