I immediately frowned.

The rear door opened.

Margot stepped out.

“Before you yell, Jackson doesn’t know I’m here.”

“That makes this worse.”

“I need five minutes.”

We went into the lobby.

Margot handed me a folder.

I didn’t touch it.

“What is that?”

“The leaked Harrington appendix.”

“I don’t work there.”

“I know.”

“Then take it back.”

“Elena, someone altered the metadata.”

That stopped me.

“What?”

“The original was created eight months ago. This file claims it was created Tuesday.”

“By whom?”

“That’s the problem.”

She opened the folder.

The printed audit log showed my old employee ID.

I stared at it.

“That’s impossible.”

“You see why I came?”

“I wasn’t in the building Tuesday.”

“We know.”

“Does Jackson?”

“He was the first person who said it.”

My eyes lifted.

“What exactly did he say?”

Margot hesitated.

Then repeated it.

“‘Elena didn’t do this. Find the person who wants us to believe she did.’”

I slowly exhaled.

“Who had access to my archived credentials?”

“IT security. Two directors. Jackson.”

“And?”

Margot looked uncomfortable.

“Victor Hale.”

That name mattered.

Victor was Pierce Global’s chief strategy officer.

And Jackson’s cousin.

In the public company, Victor was an executive.

Inside the Pierce family, he was something more complicated.

“Victor wanted Harrington delayed,” I said.

Margot nodded.

“Jackson disagreed.”

I looked again at the audit trail.

There.

A tiny discrepancy.

The timestamp format.

Pierce Global’s internal export system used seconds.

This one didn’t.

“This isn’t an original system log.”

Margot leaned closer.

“It’s reconstructed.”

“Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I can tell you where to look.”

Twenty minutes later, Jackson called.

I answered.

“You sent Margot.”

“No.”

“She came herself.”

Silence.

Then, “I’ll deal with that.”

“Don’t.”

Another pause.

“Why?”

“Because she was protecting the company.”

“You’re protecting her?”

“She’s my friend.”

“I know.”

I looked at the folder.

“Check the security export server. Someone recreated the log manually. The timestamp formatting is wrong.”

Jackson became completely quiet.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have Security verify it.”

“Good.”

“Elena.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

I nearly laughed.

“You really are practicing.”

“I’m trying.”

An hour later, he called again.

“You were right.”

“Who?”

“Victor.”

I closed my eyes.

“Jackson—”

“He used your archived credentials because he expected everyone to believe you were angry about being fired.”

“Am I about to become part of some family drama?”

“No.”

His answer was immediate.

“I’m keeping you completely outside it.”

“Good.”

“Victor has been removed from company systems. The board has the evidence. Legal is handling everything from here.”

I relaxed slightly.

Then Jackson said, “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“I owe you another apology.”

“For?”

“Your photograph.”

I frowned.

“What photograph?”

“The one from your desk. You carried it out when you left.”

I looked across my apartment.

Sophie and me.

Graduation day.

“You looked at it every time you were deciding whether to stay late,” Jackson said.

I said nothing.

“I noticed,” he continued. “I just never asked why.”

“That sounds like you.”

“Yes.”

His voice was quieter.

“I knew everything about your schedule, Elena. Your deadlines. Your output. Your travel preferences.”

He paused.

“I didn’t know your sister’s name until I forced you to choose between her and me.”

That was the closest Jackson Pierce had ever come to admitting something hurt.

But I refused to rescue him from it.

“So change.”

“I intend to.”

“For your next assistant.”

Another silence.

Then:

“For everyone.”

That answer mattered.

More than flowers.

More than money.

More than him showing up at Sophie’s wedding.

“Goodnight, Jackson.”

“Goodnight, Elena.”

Neither of us hung up immediately.

Eventually, I did.