I said nothing. The knob turned; he stepped in, rain flecked on his suit.
He looked at me like he could sense the hole in my chest. "You’ve been crying."
"Go away, Gabriel."
He crossed to me, hands raised. "You overheard. I wanted to explain."
"Don’t bother." My voice splintered.
He hovered, desperate, then dropped to a knee in front of me like a penitent. "You have to believe-"
I shoved my laptop at him, the open folder of evidence. "Harrison’s the leak. It’s all right there."
He looked, scanned, eyes darting, and I watched it hit him in real time.
"I was going to protect you from this," he said.
I laughed, the sound ugly. "By keeping me in the dark? By deciding what I should and shouldn’t know?"
He shook his head, reached for my hand. I pulled it away. He looked gutted.
"You don’t trust me," I said. Not a question.
His face crumpled. "I trust you so much it terrifies me."
I stood up, legs numb, and walked to the window. The city sparkled, cruel and dazzling, and I let myself imagine what it would be like to start over somewhere that nobody knew my name.
"If you really trusted me," I said, "you’d let me fight my own battles. Even if it means losing."
He was silent. I turned, met his eyes, and let him see every jagged edge.
"I was going to tell you I love you," I said. "But now it just feels pathetic."
His mouth opened, but I was already walking past him, out the door, and out of his reach.
He followed, called my name once, but I didn’t slow down.
In the end, it was always me against the world. I’d just forgotten, for one weak, perfect second, how good it felt to have someone stand beside me.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Chapter Eighteen
Gabriel
I let the anger bloom, but only in a controlled drip. No point in burning the house down until the termites were exposed.
But it was Eliza’s house, too. She’d built this arm of the business from the foundation up; if Whitfield wanted to undermine her, he’d have to raze it with her inside. The only thing I hated more than sabotage was a traitor who smiled during the crime.
I collated all the evidence, encrypted the packet, and set up a calendar invite for the next morning. “Risk Review: Q3 Data Integrity” was the subject line. I added the full board, three legal advisors, and Eliza. Her name was last on the list, not for hierarchy but so she’d see it after all the old guard. I knew she’d read the invitation and know immediately that something was off. She hated these meetings. She’d ask why, in private, and I’d tell her everything.
But she didn’t call. Didn’t message. Instead, she was at her desk, burning through emails and looking like she hadn’t slept. I almost went in but that would have been a tell. She hated shows of concern more than she hated the board itself.
At 8:00 sharp, the executive conference room filled. Eliza arrived last, in a black pencil skirt and a pair of heels so pointed I wondered if she’d planned to skewer someone. She didn’t look at me. Her jaw was locked, a muscle ticking in her cheek every time she scrolled on her phone.
Whitfield was already seated, hands folded over his copy of the agenda. He gave me a smile that looked almost paternal. He even had the gall to nod at Eliza, as if welcoming his favorite protégé to the firing squad.
“Shall we begin?” he asked. His voice was smooth, unhurried.