I walked to the projector and unplugged Marcus’s laptop mid-sentence. The screen went black. He sputtered. “What the hell are you—” “Sit down, Marcus.” My voice didn’t shake. It never does anymore. I plugged in my own drive. The Whitman Tower renderings bloomed across the wall — but this time with the metadata visible. Author: Elena Reyes. Date created: eleven months ago. Every revision. Every signature. Every late-night timestamp from the nights Marcus had been at happy hour bragging about “his” concept. Mr. Whitman leaned forward. “Elena. These are the same drawings he just presented.” “Identical,” I said. “Down to the cantilever he mispronounced twice.” The room went silent. Marcus’s face drained of color. He tried to laugh. “This is a misunderstanding, she’s my assistant—” “I was never your assistant.” I slid a folder across the table. “I’m the senior project architect. You were removed from this account in April for plagiarizing a junior’s facade design. HR has the file. I have the emails. And Mr. Whitman — the firm never told you because they were hoping to quietly replace him before you noticed.” Mr. Whitman’s jaw tightened. He looked at my boss. “Is this true?” My boss couldn’t meet his eyes. Marcus stood up so fast his chair tipped. “Elena, don’t do this—” “You did this. The second you opened your mouth.” Mr. Whitman stood too. “We’ll be signing the contract. With Ms. Reyes as lead. Solely. And I want him” — he pointed at Marcus — “escorted out before I change my mind about the entire firm.” Security came in ninety seconds. Marcus passed me on his way out, jaw trembling, and whispered, “You’ll regret this.” I didn’t even look up from my sketchbook. “Step aside, sweetheart,” I said softly. “Real architects are talking now.”
