Diane laughed — that sharp, performative laugh she used whenever she wanted an audience. “One last email? Honey, save the drama. Just pack your little succulent and go.” I nodded, opened my laptop, and clicked a draft I’d been sitting on for three weeks. Because here’s what Diane didn’t know: the Q3 dashboard she’d presented? It pulled live from a private repository. My repository. And buried in the footer of every slide was a tiny watermark — invisible unless you exported to PDF with the company template. I’d flagged it to Legal a month ago when I first noticed Diane screen-recording my shared screen during “mentorship” calls. I hit send. The email went to the CFO, the Head of Compliance, and the external auditor we’d hired for the merger. Attached: timestamped commits, Slack threads where Diane asked me to “simplify the methodology” so she could “understand it,” and a forty-second clip of her presentation with my watermark glowing in the corner of every single slide. Diane was still smirking when the CFO’s assistant appeared at the elevator. “Diane. Conference room. Now.” Her face dropped half an inch. Then the Head of Compliance walked out behind him, holding a folder. Then Legal. The office went so quiet I could hear the printer humming three rows over. Diane turned to me, voice suddenly small. “Hannah — sweetie — whatever you sent, we can talk about this.” I closed my laptop and stood up, smoothing my clearance-rack blazer. “Oh, I already talked, Diane. For eleven months. You just weren’t listening.” I picked up my succulent, tucked it under my arm, and walked past her toward the corner office — where the CEO was waiting at the open door with my new offer letter in his hand. Senior Analyst. Diane’s old title. Diane’s old salary. Diane’s old parking spot. As I passed her, I leaned in just slightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll water your plants.”
The voice on the line belonged to Arthur Sterling, my grandfather’s lifelong attorney. “We are ready, Clara,” Arthur said. “The wire cleared ten minutes ago. […]
