Chapter 34
Lena's POV
The morning coffee tasted more bitter than usual.
I sat at my desk, staring at the Whitmore files, replaying last night's conversation with Rowan. His possessiveness. His interrogation. His complete lack of self-awareness about his own double standards.
But this wasn't the time for that.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the server logs. Numbers scrolled across the screen—timestamps, user IDs, file modification history. I needed to find whoever had tampered with that contract.
The problem was, the logs only showed when the file had been replaced, not who'd done it. This level of tampering required technical expertise, or at least knowledge of how to bypass system tracking.
I picked up my phone and dialed my old friend Alexander Pierce. Back in high school, we'd been an inseparable trio—him, Emily, and me against the world.
"Alexander? It's Lena."
"Attorney Grant. Good morning." His voice carried its usual lazy drawl. "What brings you calling?"
"I need a favor." I cut straight to it. "Can you trace document modification records? Including who touched it, when, and what they changed."
Silence on the other end.
"How complex are we talking?"
"Server-level tampering. Someone bypassed the standard tracking system."
"Interesting." His tone shifted to something sharper. "Send me the file path and server access credentials. Give me two hours."
"Thanks."
I hung up and took a slow breath. If this really was an inside job, it had to connect to Nora somehow. She was the only one who'd benefited from this mess—Richard had handed her the Reynolds Industries project while I drowned in the Whitmore disaster.
---
Two hours later, an email notification pinged.
I opened Alexander's report. My eyes scanned through technical jargon and timestamps. Then one name jumped out:
Brett Morrison.
Time of operation: Twenty-eight minutes after my last save.
Modification: Changed equity allocation from 55% to 45%.
I stared at the screen, cold fury rising in my chest.
Brett. The colleague who'd been evasive during meetings, whose eyes had skittered away from mine.
I saved the report and sent him a text:
[Conference Room B. Ten minutes. We need to talk.]
---
Brett arrived on time, wearing his professional smile like armor.
"Lena. What's up?"
I gestured to a chair, then closed the blinds. The conference room became sealed and private.
"The Whitmore contract." I didn't waste time. "Why'd you change the equity allocation clause?"
His smile froze. "What do you mean? I don't understand what you're—"
"Don't play dumb." I slid Alexander's report across the table. "Server logs. Modification records. Timestamps. It's all here. You, Brett."
He looked down at the document. Color drained from his face.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about." His voice started to shake. "Maybe it was a system error—"
"System errors don't precisely target specific clauses and successfully bypass tracking protocols." I cut him off, voice calm and sharp. "Who told you to do it?"
"Nobody!" He looked up, scrambling. "Lena, you've got this wrong—"
"It was Nora, wasn't it."
I threw out the name deliberately. Like tossing a grenade.
Brett's pupils dilated. His mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut. His throat worked. Under the table, his hands clenched into fists.
That one second told me everything.
"So it really was her." I leaned back, tone edged with mockery.
Brett's face went chalk-white. "You... you were fishing?"
"You gave yourself away." I kept my voice level. "Now tell me why you helped her."
Long silence. Finally, he exhaled.
"She said... she said Richard would take care of me." His voice dropped. "If I helped her handle the Whitmore problem, she'd get me a position on the Reynolds Industries project."
"So you tampered with the contract."
"I just... I just changed one number." Desperation crept into his voice. "I didn't know it would cause this much trouble—"
"You knew." I interrupted. "You knew exactly what tampering with that contract would do. That the client would refuse to sign. That it would put me in the crosshairs. You just didn't think I'd trace it back to you."
Brett lowered his head, hands covering his face.
I closed my laptop and stood.
"I recorded this conversation," I said quietly. "Including the part where you admitted Nora instructed you."
His head snapped up, eyes wide with panic.
"Lena, please—"
"I'm not going to do anything to you." I picked up my bag. "But I'm not letting this slide either."
I turned and left him sitting there alone.
---
Back in my office, I opened a blank document and began drafting my resignation letter.
The logic was simple: Nora had gotten into Madison & Partners through Richard's connections. Richard had approved her parachute landing and handed her the Reynolds project to help her establish herself.
The Whitmore contract tampering was just a move to eliminate me.
Brett was her pawn. Richard was her patron.
And I was the piece they'd decided to sacrifice.
I typed the final sentence, saved the file, and hit send.
Five minutes later, Richard's reply appeared:
[We need to talk. My office. Now.]
---
Richard sat behind his desk, fingers drumming against the polished wood.
"Lena, you don't need to do this." His tone carried forced reasonableness. "One setback doesn't mean anything."
"Setback?" I let out a cold laugh. "Richard, do you think I can't see what's happening? You arranged for Nora to join the firm. You approved sabotaging the Whitmore deal."
Silence stretched for several seconds. Then he sighed.
"This is how the business world works, Lena. Sometimes you need to make compromises."
"Compromises?" I repeated the word. "You mean I should gracefully accept being Nora's supporting act?"
"If you're willing to cooperate, there's still a place for you here." His voice turned pragmatic. "After all, your professional abilities are solid."
I stared at him. Something about the moment struck me as almost funny.
"Richard, we've worked together how long? And you still don't understand my style."
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I don't play second fiddle to anyone."
I turned and walked out of his office. My phone buzzed in my pocket. The firm's group chat was exploding with notifications.
I opened it and saw the message I'd just posted:
[Colleagues—attached is recorded evidence of Brett Morrison admitting to tampering with the Whitmore contract, including his admission that Nora Kane instructed him. For your reference.]
Within seconds, the chat erupted.
I left the group, deleted every Madison & Partners contact from my phone, and walked out of the building.
The sunlight was harsh, the air cold.
But I felt lighter than I had in months.