You can sign the resignation now, sweetheart, or I can call HR and tell

I picked up the letter, folded it neatly in half, and slid it into my top drawer. “Vivian,” I said quietly, “before I sign anything, you should know three things.” I stood up slowly and walked to the door. I didn’t close it. I opened it wider. “First, I’ve never spoken to Charles outside of company events. Second, the surveillance system in this building logs every badge swipe, every elevator stop, every office entry. I pulled my own records this morning because someone has been leaving anonymous notes on my windshield for two weeks.” Vivian’s smile flickered. “Third,” I continued, “the woman Charles has actually been seeing badges into the thirty-eighth floor every Tuesday and Thursday at 6:14 PM. Her name is on the log. It isn’t mine.” I tapped my laptop, and the printer behind me hummed to life. Page after page slid out. Vivian’s face went the color of old paper. “I didn’t want to use this,” I said. “I was going to give Charles the file privately, woman to woman, and let him handle it. But you walked into my office and threatened my child.” Just then, Margaret Pemberton, the founding partner, stepped out of the conference room across the hall. She’d heard everything. She always arrived early on Thursdays. “Vivian,” Margaret said coolly, “Charles is in my office. He’s been in my office for the last twenty minutes explaining why our CFO Diane Marsh has been expensing hotel rooms to the firm. Would you like to join us?” Vivian’s purse slipped from her shoulder. The junior associates had stopped pretending to type. I picked up the resignation letter from my drawer, walked past Vivian, and dropped it gently into the shredder by the door. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “But I think you have a marriage to attend to.” The Harborlight Tower broke ground six weeks later. My name was the first one on the dedication plaque. Vivian’s was on the divorce filing.