Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Arden
Six forty-one a.m. and I'm already on my third coffee. The conference room glass reflects the image I’m trying to. Blazer pressed, hair polished and twisted into submission, lips painted in a power red, but today feels more like a ‘fake it till you make it crimson.’ I check my laptop one more time, though I've already verified the files twice this morning. The real presentation sits innocuously in my email drafts, while the decoy has lived on my desktop like the poisoned apple it is, perfectly tempting.
I noticed Brent for weeks circling my desk like a vulture, waiting for his moment. Men like him are nothing if not predictable, why did I ever consider that to be a safety? They see what they want to take, and they take it. The fact that what they're taking might be exactly what you’re letting them have never crosses their minds.
My phone buzzes as if hyping me up in preparation.
Will: Break a leg, or break their spirits. Your choice.
I smile despite the knots in my stomach. He knows exactly what I'm about to do, even said he wished he could be here to watch.
The conference room fills the way it always does on Thompson Challenge days, like a courtroom where the jury's already made up their minds. The usual suspects take their assigned seats in their unofficial territories, everyone knowing that this isn't just a presentation, it's a spectator sport. Faces I see every day have a slightly different shape today. The same people who've watched presentations crash and burn, who've witnessed careers made and broken over PowerPoint transitions, are now the audience waiting for blood in the water.
Victor arrives last, and his presence shifts the energy in the room from anticipatory to frozen over. After all, he's the one who actually will make the decision. Everyone else is just here for the show.
And I know how to put on a show.
Brent is already here, huddled over his laptop, but straightens up when he sees me. The smirk he gives me makes my three, okay four , coffees curdle in my stomach, but I force myself to smile back. Let him think he's won. Let him think the file he stole, the one so clearly labeled ‘FINAL_REALLY_FINAL_CHALLENGE_WINNER_v3.ppt’ is my best work.
I always wondered how villains in movies spill the whole plot, like they are so emboldened by their confidence that they just assume there's no way for it to backfire. Then I heard Brent and Michael, detailing their little scheme like it was foolproof.
‘Her presentation will be D.O.A.,’ Brent had laughed, ‘But just to be safe, we should probably get our hands on her deck. Make some... adjustments. That way when she crashes and burns, we can swoop in with the right strategy.’
I hate that some of what they said took root, that I’m looking at our boss, Victor, wondering if the reason he’s watching me gear up to present is more about the cut of my jacket against my waist than eagerness to see what I have to say.
"Let's begin," Victor says, gesturing to Brent. "I understand you and Arden have been working on this together."
I watch him connect his laptop, noting how his fingers tremble slightly with anticipation. I can tell, he thinks he's about to humiliate me, that he’s gearing up to have a good ol’ boys laugh at me.
The first few slides are exactly as I left them, surface-level analysis, obvious solutions, nothing that would raise eyebrows. I see Victor’s attention already wandering.
"As you can see," Brent continues, growing more confident with each slide, "our recommendation focuses on conservative cost-cutting measures and minor efficiency improvements..."
"If I may," I interrupt, standing smoothly. My heart pounds but my voice stays steady. "I believe there's been some confusion about which version we're presenting."
The silence in the room shifts from bored to alert as I connect my laptop to the secondary projector. "This is actually our final recommendation."
The real proposal appears on screen. Not the safe, timid approach Brent stole with the intention of torpedoing, but a complete reimagining of Vulcan's business model. Vertical integration. Strategic acquisition of their main supplier. A transformation that would drag them kicking and screaming into the modern era.
"As you can see, this updated approach…" I continue, unable to resist glancing at Brent, "it's a bit more than just something pretty to look at."
I launch into the real analysis, watching expressions shift to interest.
"But the key," I say, pulling up the financial projections I'd triple-checked last night, "isn't just the immediate cost savings. It's the positioning for future growth. We’re not looking for an easy win based on playing it safe." I turn to glance at Brent.
"That's not..." Brent starts, then stops, realizing he has no way to finish that sentence without admitting what he did.
"Not what?" Victor asks. "Not the version you found on Ms. Bancroft's computer when you accessed it without her knowledge?"
The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Brent's mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out.
"I have to say," I continue, as if I hadn't noticed the exchange, "I was surprised anyone would think Vulcan's salvation lay in minor efficiency improvements. Especially since our preliminary research indicated that approach would be, what was the phrase you used?" I pretend to check my notes. "Ah yes, 'dead on arrival.' "
I lean in close, as if sharing a confidence. Watching his expression and all the color drain from his face. "Funny thing about that though,” my tone is hushed but not a whisper, “when I fuck something, I usually prefer it not be dead . I didn't peg you for having such specific tastes."
The next thirty minutes are excruciating for Brent and exhilarating for me. Every question from the table I answer with precision. By the time I finish walking them through the implementation timeline, I know I’ve got it in the bag.
"Bold," Victor says finally. He glances at Brent, then back to me. "Though I have to wonder why you didn't present this strategy together, given you were meant to be working as a team."
"Oh, we did work as a team," I say, keeping my voice light. "Brent was kind enough to demonstrate exactly why we can't afford to play it safe anymore."
In Victor's office, he sits back in his chair with that inscrutable expression he's perfected over years of breaking bad news to clients, while breaking the souls of employees. I force myself to stay still, to not fidget with my blazer or check my phone where I know Will is waiting to hear how it went.
"That was quite a show today," he says.
Being praised by someone like Victor has its own cost associated with it. It never feels clean . Which is in part why I’m sitting across from him fidgeting more than I’d like to be. The conference dispersed and every contestant and observer alike scattered back to the safety of their own desks.
Stop fidgeting. Stop fidgeting. Stop fidgeting.
"I prefer to think of it as a strategic reveal." Am I crossing and uncrossing my legs too much?
"Indeed." He shuffles some papers on his desk.
"Congratulations. You and Brent will both be promoted."
"Both of us?" The words escape before I can stop them.
"Yes." Victor leans back, studying me. "He may have fumbled today, but he's valuable to the firm. He played the game as you did, and whether you like it or not, he pushed you further to deliver something better. There were more dramatics than need be, but you both delivered.”
Both.
I’m not sure what infuriates me more, that we both get awarded an equal promotion, or the fact my success is still attributed to him. Not just that he clung to my coattails, but that his contribution was motivating to me in anything other than rage.
I walk back to my desk in a daze, equal parts triumphant and troubled. I got what I wanted. The promotion, the raise, the satisfaction of watching Brent realize he'd been outplayed. And then each one of those things was invalidated.
“Well, we got the promotion,” I tell Pricktor. Though he has yet to respond. If I’m being honest, he might be barely clinging to life. At this point he really is only a small amount of dry dirt in a pot held together by scotch tape . Aren't we all?
“We sure did, Bancroft.” Brent strolls into my cubicle which now feels immeasurably smaller. “Thanks for that, by the way.” Voice carrying the same smug certainty of someone who's been able to fail-up his entire life.
“Not the type of synergy you hoped for,” I reply, keeping my eyes on Pricktor's wilting form rather than giving Brent the satisfaction of my full attention.
“All worked out in the end” he shrugs, straightening his tie with nonchalance, the real kind, not the kind I practice. And for people like him it always does. The world bends itself into pretzels to ensure men like Brent land on their feet, no matter how far they fall.
Even in victory, I'm still being defined by a man’s actions. My strategy wasn't brilliant on its own merits, it was brilliant because it outmaneuvered him. My promotion isn't because I'm exceptional, it's because I proved I could play their game. Everything I achieved today will be viewed through the lens of how I responded, not as something I accomplished on my own.
They're probably already spinning it. ‘She handled it well’ instead of ‘She developed an innovative strategy.’ Even my cunningness in setting the trap will be seen as reactive, a woman protecting herself rather than orchestrating a win.
The mirror of my computer screen is the worst of all. But I can’t look away, wondering if this is what success will always feel like. Achievements that come with asterisks.
Another text from Will.
Will: How'd it go? Did you crush them or just their egos?
I stare at the screen, trying to figure out how to explain that I proved I could be just as calculating, just as ruthless as any of them. And while it worked, there’s a bitter taste of defeat regardless of the victory.