Page 79 of Babies for the Big Shot

“I pivoted.”

“Fucking hell, Rebecca…”

“I saw the way you looked at her that night. Like she was the axis of the fucking earth. And I knew if I didn’t act, you’d vanish into her.”

My pulse spikes. My hands curl against my sides.

“You wanted to drive a wedge.”

“I wanted her to understand the playing field. She’s twenty-six, Nick. She carries tote bags with slogans. You think that’s built to last?”

“I think I’m done here.”

I rise.

Her voice follows me. “I was trying to bring you back. That’s all.”

I pause. Turn halfway.

“You didn’t bring me back,” I say, quiet and final. “You made damn sure I’d never come near you again.”

Her expression stutters.

And then I walk.

I leave her there, sitting in the sun, calm and composed, sipping her coffee as if nothing happened.

She calls my name but I keep walking, steady and unbothered. Her laughter follows, intentional, meant to sound triumphant.

Let them speculate. Whatever version of me she thinks she reached, she didn’t. She never will.

My mind’s already three steps ahead.

She admitted it.

She took the photo. Sent it. Delivered the confession without hesitation, polished and purposeful. Not out of guilt, but satisfaction. As if inflicting damage wasn’t a consequence, but the objective.

I take the elevator to the executive floor, moving without hesitation, my jaw locked and my stride measured, each step a response to the storm already unfolding in my head.

Emily looks up as I pass her desk; she doesn’t speak, only watches with wide eyes, aware enough to read the temperature without needing a forecast.

I enter my office and close the door behind me, the lights still on from earlier, undisturbed in my absence.

I cross to the cabinet and reach for the drawer, second from the top, left-hand side. The one I secured this morning before the board meeting, knowing exactly what it contained and why it needed to stay hidden.

The lock gives without resistance.

I open it.

The contents are missing.

Not displaced. Not buried under files or shifted by accident.

Removed.

The photograph, the single, glossy, undeniable piece of evidence I had kept buried beneath a stack of acquisition reports, is no longer there.

I had intended to revisit it only once I knew who was behind it, once I had enough leverage to ensure it couldn’t be used again. I had taken every precaution to keep it secured, out of reach, and beyond casual discovery.