discussions.”
The words struck their intended target.
Lucas’s face went still.
Sophie had heard office rumors about the founder’s death.
Arthur Bennett had built Apex with Lucas in a rented warehouse, then died unexpectedly two years after the company’s first major expansion.
Employees spoke of the event only in lowered voices.
Daniel had not mentioned it from concern.
He had used grief as a weapon.
Sophie stepped closer to the desk.
“You brought HR here with termination papers before anyone had reviewed the message or spoken to me.”
Daniel frowned.
“Your conduct was obvious.”
“So was your urgency.”
She turned her phone so the others could see the screen.
“Because at 8:06 this morning, before Lucas called me into his office, you tried to permanently delete the archived version of my campaign.”
The room changed.
The HR representative leaned forward.
Julian’s expression lost its practiced boredom.
Lucas looked at the timestamp without blinking.
Daniel’s face reddened.
“I clean obsolete files every week.”
“On the morning after my voice message?” Sophie asked.
“Seven minutes after Lucas opened it?”
“It was coincidence.”
“And you brought termination papers twenty minutes later.”
Daniel turned to Julian.
“This is absurd.
Lucas’s entire company is at risk, and we are discussing file management.”
“No,” Lucas said.
“We are discussing whether my head of marketing falsified launch projections and concealed internal research.”
For the first time, Daniel raised his voice.
“I protected this launch because you made hesitation impossible.”
The statement landed harder than a denial.
Daniel realized it at once.
Lucas’s eyes became cold.
“Explain.”
Daniel’s breathing quickened.
“Every division knows what happens when someone brings you bad news.
You interrogate them until they cannot speak.
You reject uncertainty.
You expect perfection, then punish anyone who admits they cannot deliver it.”
Sophie glanced at Lucas.
The accusation was not entirely false.
That made it more dangerous.
Daniel saw the hesitation and pushed harder.
“I gave the board a forecast it could support.
I gave investors confidence.
I did what was necessary because you created a company where the truth is treated like failure.”
Lucas absorbed the words without defending himself.
Then he asked, “Did you alter the forecast?”
Daniel looked toward Julian.
The chairman’s silence offered no protection.
“I adjusted it.”
“Did you remove Miss Walker’s risk analysis?”
“I removed speculation.”
“Did you present her work as yours?”
“I incorporated material produced by my department.”
Sophie felt heat rise behind her eyes, but she refused to let him see her cry.
For months, Daniel had told her she was inexperienced, too emotional, and not ready for visible responsibility.
He had taken the strongest parts of her work while making her believe the failure was hers.
Lucas looked at the HR representative.
“Suspend his system access.”
Julian lifted a hand.
“Not so fast.”
Everyone turned.
The chairman closed the office door, then placed his leather portfolio on the desk.
“Daniel’s conduct can be investigated,” he said.
“But the larger problem remains.
Northstar is failing, investors are nervous, and the board meets Friday.”
Lucas’s shoulders squared.
“I am aware.”
“Are you?” Julian asked.
“Because instead of presenting a recovery plan, you are staging an internal trial with a junior strategist who just embarrassed you in front of the company.”
Sophie expected Lucas to dismiss her then.
It would
