But first I needed one last thing from the company: a heavily encrypted drive I had hidden beneath my old desk, containing full transaction logs and internal approvals not stored on the main network.
So I went back.
I wore dark jeans, a cream cashmere sweater, low boots, and no makeup strong enough to hide the bruise on my cheek. I didn’t care who saw it. A woman with visible proof of violence walked differently through the world.
The lobby of Randolph’s headquarters was all stone and glass and masculine insecurity. Staff members stared as I crossed the floor. Word of the gala had traveled fast. I was ten steps from the security barrier when the main elevator opened and Prescott stepped out with his assistant on his arm.
He had not even waited a full day to parade her.
Prescott saw me and smiled broadly. “Well,” he said, loud enough for the entire lobby to hear, “look who came crawling back.”
She laughed beside him.
“I told you she would,” Prescott said without taking his eyes off me. “They always do when the money runs out.”
He took in my jeans, my sweater, the bruise. “Couldn’t even afford a proper suit for your walk of shame?”