He tried to protest, but I squeezed his shoulder, hard.
“If even one file resurfaces, I’ll make sure your next job is shoveling sewer lines in Antarctica. Do you understand?”
He nodded, wild-eyed, and fumbled for his laptop. I watched as he wiped the drives and deleted every backup from his cloud. I made him write a confession, timestamped and emailed to me, admitting he’d fabricated the chain of evidence. I’d have it in my back pocket, just in case.
When I left, I felt nothing. Not relief, not anger. Just a cold, clinical satisfaction.
I texted the head of Legal, “It’s over. Destroy the originals.”
She responded, “Will do. Should we notify the other party?”
I stared at the phone, thumb hovering. Then: “No. Not unless it becomes necessary.”
Eliza would never know. Not about the threat, not about the cost. That was how it had to be.
And if the world burned down around me, at least she’d walk away unscathed.
By Monday morning, the firm was an airtight container: every leak plugged, every possible witness under NDA. I spent the first four hours locked in a conference room with Legal, drilling through our exposure scenarios. They threw terms like “reputational risk” and “optics,” as if shame were just a liability to be amortized.
I kept my voice level. “We need to be ready for every possibility. If the story hits, we control the narrative. We do not sacrifice anyone, least of all Eliza Reeves.”
One of the lawyers, a thin woman with a diamond cartilage piercing, pushed up her glasses and said, “Are you certain she’s not aware of the risk?”
“She doesn’t have to know yet.” I said it with finality and watched them all jot it down.
For the next hour, I spun out plans within plans. If the photos leaked, we’d allege fabrication and produce the blackmailer’s confession. If it came to depositions, we’d settle out of court with ironclad NDAs. Eliza’s name would never surface, and if it did, I’d bury it so deep nobody would find it.
But even as I mapped out the chessboard, I knew I was playing on borrowed time.
After the meeting, I returned to my office. The hallway was silent, too silent, no click of heels, no distant music from Eliza’s office. I texted her, once, under the pretense of a “status check.” She didn’t reply.
A junior analyst stuck his head in my door. “Ms. Reeves called in sick,” he said, voice tight.
That had never happened before. Not once in the decade I’d known her.
The rest of the day, I couldn’t focus. Every piece of paper on my desk blurred together, every incoming message felt like a threat. When the phone rang, I jumped. It was never her.
By sunset, the city outside was a smear of headlights and haze. I scanned the office again; empty, deserted. Eliza’s desk was untouched, the flowers wilted but still standing.
The unease sharpened. I paced the corridor, pausing at her door. I nearly knocked, but there was nobody inside to answer.
Back in my office, I pulled up the security feeds. She hadn’t been in all day. The last footage was from Friday night, her, striding out with her usual purpose, but her eyes hollow.
I called her cell. Voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. What would I even say? “I kept you in the dark for your own good”?“I engineered a coverup so you’d never have to defend yourself from something that shouldn’t matter”? The words withered before I could voice them.
I sat at my desk, waiting. For what, I wasn’t sure. And an anonymous text flashed on my screen:You can’t hide this from her forever.
No sender. No context. It didn’t matter.
I deleted it, but the message was already in my bones.
I looked at the empty hallway, felt the cold echo of her absence, and realized I hadn’t protected her at all.
I’d only succeeded in shutting her out.
Chapter Nineteen
Eliza