10. Serena
Serena
" W hat do they think I'm going to do? Steal the pot plants in the lobby? Start a rebellion in accounting?" I ask the security guard as we wait for the elevators.
“Ma’am, I’m just doing my job.”
I fold my arms across my chest. The moment I stepped into the Luminous building, this guard stopped me, giving me a sympathetic look as he announced he was to escort me to the executive floor.
A week ago, I had a key card that opened every door in this building.
Now I need a babysitter to use the elevator.
When we step off the elevator, I’m herded past the empty reception desk, down the glass fishbowl corridor lined with oversized beauty posters—every glossy print a monument to my now-tainted reputation.
In the boardroom, standing by the window, silhouetted by morning sun and Lake Michigan, stands Caleb.
Arms folded, gaze fixed on the water, looking like he owns the place in his charcoal suit and burgundy tie.
My stomach lurches. It’s easier to play brave when I’m alone, but the second I see him—shoulders squared, jaw carved from stone, eyes lethal, like a really hot predator scanning for his first kill—my composure begins to splinter.
The memory of last night's confession on the yacht deck makes my skin feel too tight.
“Ms. Morgan,” he says, as the guard backs pointedly out of the room. “Right on time.” He gestures to the chair at the end of the table. “Nice dress.”
“Sympathetic enough for you?” I ask as I slide into the seat, smoothing down the skirt of the blue and white floral chiffon.
It’s a little too cutesy for my case. But after Caleb mentioned my usual work garb was giving ‘hostile takeover’ when we needed ‘wrongfully accused employee’, I figured a floral dress paired with a blazer was a happy medium.
He gives a fractional nod, like he’d expected me to show up in a garbage bag in protest. “You look…convincing. When you get nervous, touch your necklace, not your ring. Rings make you look defensive. Necklaces make you look like you’re remembering who owns your attention.”
“You’re coaching me on body language now?”
He leans on the table—his hands, large and capable, flattening the folder of evidence between us. “They’ll look for tells. Everyone will.”
I touch my necklace without thinking. “Is it wrong that I just want to yell at someone today?”
“Not if you want to hand them what they want on a silver platter.”
He takes the seat next to mine instead of across, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, smell that cologne that makes me want to lean into him. The proximity feels deliberate. Like he's testing whether I meant it when I didn't take the out he offered me last night.
Caleb flips open the folder, reviewing a page without letting me see.
“Today is just about containment. No counterattack. Save the drama for after we have something to hit them with.”
“Fine.” I whisper, “But let the record show I’m not above throwing coffee in someone’s face if things get desperate.”
He grins at that—just for a second, that rare wolfish smile. Then he sobers, eyes narrowing at the knock on the door.
Patricia Wong enters with a stack of folders and David right behind her, looking uncomfortable in a way that makes my stomach drop.
"Serena," Patricia says, settling into her chair. "Thank you for coming in."
"Of course." I force my voice steady even though my heart is trying to leap out of my chest.
David takes the seat across from his brother, his usually friendly demeanor replaced by careful formality. "Before we begin, I want to be clear that this is an information-gathering meeting. No decisions have been made about your employment status."
The words should be reassuring, but his tone isn't.
Caleb leans forward slightly. "My client is here voluntarily to help clear up any misunderstandings about the events in question."
Patricia opens the first folder. "We appreciate that. We've uncovered some additional information since we last spoke, and we'd like to get Ms. Morgan's perspective."
Additional information. My palms start to sweat.
"What kind of information?" Caleb asks, his voice sharp.
"Security footage," David says, sliding a photograph across the table. "From the parking garage. This was taken at 11:47 PM on September 15th."
I stare at the grainy image. It's definitely me, walking toward the building entrance. Alone. At nearly midnight.
"I don't understand," I say, looking up. "What's significant about this?"
Patricia pulls out another document. "According to our IT logs, someone using your credentials accessed the campaign files at 12:23 AM that same night. The timestamp matches your badge entry at 11:52 PM."
My mouth goes dry. "I never accessed those files at midnight. I wasn't even here that long."
"How long were you here?" Patricia asks.
I try to remember. It was two weeks ago, right after the Hartley presentation. "Maybe twenty minutes? I came back to get my laptop charger from my office."
"Your office is on the fifteenth floor," David points out. "The files were accessed from a terminal on the twentieth floor. Marketing strategic planning."
My hands start to shake. “That’s not possible. I went straight to my office, like I said. My charger was on my desk, I grabbed it, I left. I didn’t go anywhere near the twentieth floor.”
Patricia is cool as ever. “We have security logs recording your elevator usage. Swipe records show you exited on fifteen, then again on twenty.”
Caleb doesn’t even blink. “And the system timestamps? Can we see them?”
“Of course.” David slides over a printout. Caleb barely glances at it before handing it to me.
11:54 PM—Serena Morgan badge, elevator to 15.
12:01 AM—Serena Morgan badge, elevator to 20.
I shake my head, throat closing. “No. I was only on 15.” I look at Caleb, panic rising up my throat like bile. "I've never used the twentieth floor. In five years, I don't think I've even stepped off the elevator there except for orientation."
Patricia raises an eyebrow, her pen poised. "Yet your credentials were also used to enter the server room on that floor."
I'm about to protest—swear on my grandmother's recipe box—when Caleb leans forward. The temperature drops ten degrees.
"Do you have video of my client on the twentieth floor?"
Patricia hesitates. "There are no cameras inside the office areas. We only have access logs."
Caleb leans back, baring a smile sharp enough to bleed. The kind of smile that promises ruin. "So, at no point can you produce footage of my client on the twentieth floor. Not entering, not leaving, not anywhere near those servers."
Silence.
"Correct," Patricia admits. "But the badge records?—"
"—show only that her credentials were used." Caleb's voice turns condescending. "As we all know, badges can be borrowed or cloned, especially when you force employees to wear them on lanyards like it's summer camp."
Patricia's eye twitches. David says nothing, but I catch him glancing at me with something like apology.
"Passwords can be compromised as well," Caleb continues, flipping the printout back.
"If someone accessed the twentieth floor with her badge and no camera caught it, your security is essentially Swiss cheese.
" He looks directly at David. "I'd like to request the full server room access logs, including any building maintenance overrides and master keys in play that week.
It's basic digital forensics. Unless you're seriously making a case on this alone? "
Patricia shifts tactics. "We also received a call yesterday from someone who claims they saw you meeting with Victoria Chase from Radiance Beauty."
"What?" The lie is so bold I almost laugh. "Who told you that?"
"The person wishes to remain anonymous, but they claim they saw you and Ms. Chase having lunch at Alinea three weeks ago. They said it looked like a business meeting."
"That's a lie." My voice shakes. "I've never met Victoria Chase in person. Ever."
"The witness seemed quite certain?—"
"The witness is lying," I repeat, louder.
"Let me get this straight." Caleb's hand covers mine under the table—completely inappropriate and exactly what I need. "You have grainy security footage that could be anyone, access logs that prove nothing about intent, and an anonymous tip from someone who may or may not exist?"
"Caleb," David warns.
"No, David. This is amateur hour." Caleb's voice turns ice cold. "You're building a circumstantial case based on digital evidence that any first-year IT student could manipulate and hearsay from a source who won't go on record. It's embarrassing."
The room falls silent. David looks like he wants to strangle his brother. Patricia has actual sweat beading at her hairline.
"We're not accusing anyone of anything," Patricia says carefully. "We're gathering facts."
"Then gather better facts." Caleb starts packing with brutal efficiency. "Real security footage, not these parking garage glamour shots. Technical analysis that would hold up in court. And if you want witness testimony, produce someone willing to show their face."
He closes his briefcase with finality. "My client will be happy to cooperate further when you have something worth discussing. Until then, this conversation is over."
He guides me out with a hand on my lower back that burns through my blazer. We're barely three steps into the hallway when David's voice stops us.
"Caleb. Got a minute?"
Caleb glances at me, and I see the conflict—protective instinct versus whatever brother drama awaits.
“I'm fine," I say, even though I'm not. "Go. I'll wait by the elevators."
He leans close, his breath warm against my ear. "Don’t open your mouth to anyone but me. Not even the plants."
The brothers disappear into an empty office, and I hear David’s opening salvo: “What the hell was that?”