I took a step closer, lowering my voice. "Do you want me to post a side-by-side comparison—your 'work' versus my original drafts—on a tech forum and let the experts judge?"
That hit him where it hurt most.
His foundation was shallow; his code couldn't withstand real scrutiny.
Darlene might be fooled by appearances, but in the tech world, people see through fakery in a heartbeat.
His face turned from red to white, then to a sickly shade of green.
Just then, his gaze flicked to the old photo frame on my desk—a picture of my mother and me from last year's trip.
A glint of malice flashed in his eyes.
He reached out casually, as if by accident, and with a careless sweep of his hand—
Crash!
The frame hit the floor, glass shattering into jagged pieces.
He took a deliberate step forward, his shoe grinding down on the broken glass and the photo beneath it.
"Oh no," he said mockingly, "sorry, Sir Harold. Didn't see that there."
In that instant, my blood roared in my ears.
I grabbed him by the collar and swung hard.
Smack!
The slap echoed through the room. His head jerked to the side, a vivid handprint blooming across his face.
"Get. Out."
Before he could react, the office door slammed open.