You’re nothing but a glorified secretary, Maya — sit down before you embarrass yourself

I walked to the head of the table instead. Trevor’s grin curdled as I set the folio down beside the pitch deck he’d been presenting — a deck I recognized, because I’d watched him photocopy it from a junior analyst’s desk three weeks ago. “Mr. Okafor,” I said to the lead investor, a quiet man from Lagos who had flown in that morning, “before you commit eighteen million dollars, you should know the Meridian acquisition model on slide seven was built by Daniel Reyes in our analytics division. Trevor changed the name on the cover page last Thursday at 6:47 p.m. The metadata is still on the file.” The room went silent. Trevor laughed, too loud. “She’s the receptionist, gentlemen, she doesn’t even —” “I’m the receptionist who finished her MBA at Booth in night classes,” I said, sliding a second folder forward. “And as of Monday morning, I’m the new junior partner Mr. Hargrove offered me last Friday, after Daniel showed him what you’d done.” I opened the folder. Inside was the signed offer letter, and beneath it, the internal investigation report into Trevor’s three prior plagiarized pitches. Mr. Okafor picked it up. He read for a long minute. Then he stood, buttoned his jacket, and said, “I will speak with Ms. Castellano about my eighteen million. Alone.” Trevor’s face drained white. Diane finally looked up, and I saw something I hadn’t seen in a year — my sister, awake. Security escorted Trevor out at 7:14 p.m. He left his Rolex on the table; it had been a loan from the firm’s executive wardrobe, and Hargrove wanted it back. Diane filed for separation that weekend and moved into my apartment with two suitcases and the photo of our mother. Six months later, I closed the Okafor deal myself — twenty-two million, not eighteen. And the first thing I bought with my bonus was a navy blazer for Diane, pressed and waiting on her bed the morning she started her own night classes.