Chapter 2

Nathan announced the revised assignments at the project review meeting.

“Leah will deliver the final Hartwell acquisition presentation. Emma will assist with the materials.”

No one in the conference room spoke.

Leah sat on his right. In front of her lay a project binder with a fresh label. My name was gone from the cover, and hers was there instead.

A colleague glanced at me, then turned to Nathan.

“Emma built the framework, the valuation model, and the negotiation approach. She's been the client's contact since day one. Replacing her this late could shake their confidence.”

Nathan nodded. He'd seen that coming.

“Leah worked on acquisitions before she took leave. She'll need some time to adjust, and Emma has the experience to bring her up to speed.”

My eight months of work were now part of Leah's return-to-work plan.

She looked down, gripping the edge of the binder.

“If Emma isn't okay with this, she should give the presentation. I don't want to take something that belongs to her.”

Nathan turned to me. I knew that look. He needed me to sign off on his decision before she started crying.

“If you're taking the assignment, make sure you're ready for it,” I said.

She held the binder tighter. “Are you mad at me?”

“I want this project to go well.”

I was. And this time, I didn't rush to fill the silence with reassurance.

Afterward, Leah followed me to the elevators.

“Can I borrow your presentation binder? I've been out of work so long. I need to see how you put the strategy together.”

It held the official proposal, records of the negotiations, client comments, and months of risk notes I'd written by hand.

I gave it to her. “Bring it back first thing tomorrow. I need to go over it before the presentation.”

She nodded eagerly. “I'll be careful with it.”

When she brought it back the next morning, it was barely salvageable.

Page after page of notes had been blacked out with thick marker. Several sheets had been ripped out, among them the final risk analysis. Someone had scribbled over the valuation adjustment sheet so hard that the paper had torn.

I'd worked on that one page for three nights. Seventeen revisions.

I tracked Leah down in the break room.

“What happened to my files?”

She stared at what was left of them.

“I was trying to understand your thought process. The longer I read, the more worthless I felt.”

“So you blacked out my notes and ripped out the pages we need most?”

Her voice trembled.

“I couldn't control myself. All those numbers made me think of Michael's medical bills. Then I could only picture him in the hospital bed.”

“You didn't have to read it.”

She put her hands over her face. “I told you what happened. What do you want? For me to say I was trying to hurt you?”

People walking past the break room slowed down to watch.

Nathan heard the crying and stepped out of a conference room. Leah drifted toward him, stopping just short of touching him.

“I've messed everything up again,” she whispered.

He took the binder and leafed through the gaps. He knew exactly how much work those missing pages represented.

Then he turned to me.

“I'll get the team to put it back together.”

“Some of my handwritten notes aren't saved anywhere else.”

“We'll use the meeting records to recover as much as possible.” He lowered his voice. “Don't interrogate her in front of everyone. She wasn't trying to ruin your work. She's still getting better.”

I took my binder from him.

“Have them send the rebuilt files to my work email. I'll need to review everything before the client sees it.”

That night, while packing in the study, I came across an old photo.

It was from his first winter running the Boston office—Nathan buried in paperwork in a room where the heat barely worked, smiling at me.

“Just give me a little longer. When this office is mine to run, you'll have a place right next to me.”

Now he was handing that place to Leah, and I was expected not to object.

My phone screen lit up.

Two messages from Nathan.

[The team is rebuilding the files. They'll deliver them to your office tomorrow morning.]

[Leah's having a rough night. Please let the binder thing go.]

I read both and sent nothing back.

Instead, I photographed the damaged pages and emailed the team a detailed list of what was missing—which analyses were mine, and which sections they'd need to rebuild from scratch.

Then I cleared my personal files off my work computer and started writing handover notes for all my ongoing projects.

Nathan texted again, asking if I was still angry. I didn't reply. I finished the handover notes.