PART 2:

Then investigate. Mason stood up slowly. Run your audits, check your systems, do whatever you need to do. But I didn’t steal anything from this company. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Sit down, Mr. Reed. Am I under arrest? Not yet, Scarlett said quietly. Then I’m going home to my daughter. Mason pushed the chair back.

If you want to fire me, fire me. If you want to press charges, press charges, but I’m not going to sit here and play pretend that this is anything other than what it is. Thomas Whitmore stood up. And what is it, Mr. Reed? Mason looked around the room one time. His gaze lingered on Scarlett, and for a moment she thought she saw something that might have been disappointment.

Or maybe pity. She couldn’t tell. “A mistake,” he said. “A really big mistake.” Then he walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Outside, Scarlett watched through the glass walls as Mason Reed crossed the 47th floor, past the rows of empty cubicles and darkened computer screens. Security was waiting for him at the elevators.

Two guards in black uniforms, their faces professionally blank. They escorted him inside. The doors closed, and he disappeared. “Well,” Patricia Chen broke the silence. “That was certainly dramatic. Dramatic or not, we have our culprit.” Richard Holbrook was already typing something on his tablet.

“I’ll have our PR team draft a statement for tomorrow morning. Something about decisive action, zero tolerance for corporate espionage. Make sure legal is involved,” Thomas Whitmore added. “We need to protect the company from any potential lawsuits. And Scarlett, good work identifying him so quickly. Shows strong leadership.” Scarlett nodded mechanically, but she wasn’t listening anymore.

She was watching the snow fall past the windows, thick and heavy, covering Manhattan in white. Somewhere down there, Mason Reed was walking back to his apartment, back to his 6-year-old daughter who’d been waiting for him to come home. “Scarlett?” She turned. Patricia Chen was looking at her with an expression that might have been concern if Patricia Chen were capable of genuine concern.

“Are you all right?” “Fine,” Scarlett said. “Just tired.” “Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.” The board members filed out one by one, already moving on to the next crisis, the next decision, the next person who needed to be sacrificed to keep the machine running. Scarlett stayed in the conference room alone, looking at Mason Reed’s employee photo still displayed on the screen.

32 years old, single father, four years with the company. She pulled up his personnel file, scrolling through the sparse details. Hired as a junior infrastructure specialist in March four years ago. No promotions, no disciplinary issues, no performance reviews that stood out in any direction. He showed up on time, did his work, went home.

Invisible. Except for one thing, his reference letters. Scarlett opened them, frowning. Three letters, all from high-level technology executives she recognized. People who normally wouldn’t write recommendations for low-level employees. The language was formal but warm, talking about Mason’s exceptional technical knowledge and innovative thinking.

One letter mentioned his significant contributions to foundational architecture design. Strange. If Mason Reed was so exceptional, why was he still working in the basement after four years? Scarlett closed the file and rubbed her eyes. She was seeing patterns where there weren’t any, looking for complications because the simple answer felt too easy.

Sometimes the obvious explanation was the correct one. Sometimes quiet employees betrayed their companies. Sometimes people were exactly who they appeared to be. She gathered her things, laptop, phone, the stack of documents she’d been too busy to read, and headed for the elevator. The building was mostly empty now, just the overnight security staff and a few workaholics trying to prove something.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, echoing in the silence. Outside, the snow was falling harder. Scarlett’s driver was waiting in the black SUV, engine running, heat blasting. She climbed in the back and gave him her address, a penthouse apartment in TriBeCa that she’d bought two years ago and barely lived in.

“Rough night, Ms. Vaughn?” the driver asked. “Something like that.” They drove through Manhattan’s late-night streets, past restaurants closing down and bars just getting started. Scarlett watched the city slide by through tinted windows, thinking about Mason Reed’s face when she’d accused him. That strange calm, that absence of fear.

Her phone buzzed. A text from the head of PR. “Statement ready for approval. Sending now.” She opened the attachment. Standard corporate speak. “Orion Global takes data security seriously. Decisive action. Full cooperation with authorities. Employee in question no longer with the company.” Her finger hovered over the approve button.

A mistake. A really big mistake. Scarlett locked her phone and leaned back against the leather seat. Tomorrow, Mason Reed’s name would be in every news outlet. His face would be on television. His life dissected by strangers who didn’t know anything about him except that he was accused of stealing from one of Manhattan’s most powerful companies.

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