4. The Trojan Horse Wears Prada
4
THE TROJAN HORSE WEARS PRADA
MACKENZIE
There are certain things they don't teach you in business school. Like how to walk into the company you just publicly doused with champagne and pretend you're there to help, not burn the whole thing to the ground.
With a whole weekend to decide what to do with Alexander Drake’s job offer, only one option remained.
Take him down.
And I’m not just talking about taking him down—I mean, taking down the whole enchilada.
The job. The board. The company. Everything.
It was all perfect. All working out.
I’d been working for a year behind the scenes on an exposé that would out the tech culture that didn’t give a damn about the human beings it brought on board. And companies like InnovaTech were the worst offenders. They lulled employees—employees like me—into a sense of safety before dropping a suitcase-sized anvil on their heads.
Not unlike the certain ex-husbands who couldn’t wait to trade you in for a younger model. Ex-husbands who were threatened. Who were cold, were calculating.
Ex-husbands who made you regret the decade or more years you’d spent doting on them just for them to walk out the door without a second glance.
Ex-husbands like mine.
The elevator dings as it lands on my new office’s floor, and I shake off the memory.
And speaking of doting…
Today, I’m the very picture of it. Because it’s my first day in my new position.
I adjust my blazer - navy today, because wearing red two days in a row feels a bit on the nose - and stride through Drake Enterprises' gleaming lobby like I belong here. Like I didn't just create Seattle's most expensive wet t-shirt contest with their CEO less than seventy-two hours ago.
"Ms. Gallo!" The receptionist practically jumps to attention. "Mr. Drake said to expect you. I have your security badge and... um..." She glances at her screen, clearly confused. "Access to the executive floor?"
I bet that directive caused some morning drama in HR. Nothing says "welcome aboard" quite like giving the woman who assaulted you with Dom Pérignon unlimited access to your office.
"Thank you..." I check her nameplate, "Jenny."
"Oh, everyone calls me JennyFromTheBlock." She grins, then immediately looks mortified. "I mean, not everyone. Just... you know what? Never mind. Here's your badge."
I take the badge, already mentally drafting my next blog post.
Note to self: Tech companies trying to be "fun" and "casual" by encouraging nicknames is definitely getting a paragraph in my next takedown.
The second elevator opens directly onto the executive floor, all gleaming glass and mahogany. Very "we have more money than taste." My kind of target.
"Ms. Gallo." Emma Martinez, Drake’s executive assistant I remember from last night, approaches with the cautious air of someone dealing with a bomb disposal. "Your office is this way. We've set you up next to Mr. Drake's suite."
Of course they have. Keep your friends close and your champagne-wielding enemies closer.
"How thoughtful," I say, following her down the hallway. "I assume that's so Alex can keep an eye on me? Make sure I'm not stockpiling any more beverages?"
Emma's professional smile doesn't waver. "Mr. Drake thought it would facilitate better communication regarding your... cultural initiatives."
My cultural initiatives.
Because that's definitely why I'm here. Not at all to gather intel for the biggest tech industry exposé Seattle's ever seen.
My office is exactly what you'd expect from a company trying too hard to look progressive: One wall entirely glass (because apparently privacy is for people who don't value "transparency"), a standing desk (because sitting is death), and - I kid you not - a meditation cushion in the corner.
"The meditation corner is a new initiative," Emma explains. "We're very focused on employee wellness."
I resist the urge to ask if they considered maybe just not working people to death instead.
"Perfect," I say instead, setting my laptop bag on the desk. "I can already feel my chakras aligning with our synergistic vision."
Emma's eye twitches slightly. "Mr. Drake has asked that you join this morning's executive meeting. Nine-thirty in the main boardroom." She pauses. "Coffee will be served. Not champagne. "
"Shame. I do my best work slightly buzzed and heavily vengeful."
She leaves quickly after that. I wait until the door closes before pulling out my laptop and opening a private browser window.
Time to let @MizzByteMyAlgos weigh in on corporate wellness initiatives:
"Breaking: Major tech company thinks meditation cushions will fix toxic work culture. Because nothing says 'we care' like making you do yoga while answering midnight Slack messages. #TechBroLogic #WellnessIsForWinners"
I hit post and start setting up my workstation, trying not to think about how surreal this is.
A few days ago, I was being escorted out by security. Today I have an office next to the CEO.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. "Settling in?"
Speak of the devil. And by devil, I mean Alexander Drake, leaning against my doorframe with the kind of casual confidence that comes from twenty years of running board rooms.
His suit is perfectly pressed, dark gray today, and I refuse to notice how well it fits across his shoulders.
Just like I refuse to notice the way his green eyes catch the morning light or how the silver at his temples somehow makes him more attractive.
A shame.
Alexander Drake looks like he stepped off a mens wear fashion runaway and right into an office. In his mid-forties, he has the rugged handsomeness that only comes with age. Eyes that have seen things. A face lightly lined with the wisdom that comes with having a story to tell.
But nope. Today, I’m not noticing any of that. No way.
Because I'm a professional.
A professional who's planning to expose his company's toxic culture. A professional who's been around the corporate block enough times to know that men who look like that - successful, polished, just the right amount of sophistication - are usually the most dangerous kind.
Been there. Divorced that. Moving on.
"The office meets your standards, I hope?" he asks, and I catch the hint of amusement in his voice. He's enjoying this, the smug bastard.
"It's very... Drake Enterprises." I gesture to the meditation cushion. "Nothing says 'we care about wellness' quite like mandatory meditation in a fishbowl."
"The glass walls were here before me," he admits, stepping into the office. "Though I'm told they promote transparency."
"They promote migraines. But hey, at least everyone can watch me have my emotional breakdown during quarterly reviews."
That gets a laugh from him, surprisingly genuine, and I add another note to my mental file: Alexander Drake has dimples when he really smiles. This is both useful information for my blog and incredibly inconvenient for my sanity.
"The executive meeting starts in ten," he says, checking his watch - vintage Omega, because of course it is. "Fair warning: the board isn't exactly thrilled about your... unique hiring situation."
"You mean they're not excited about the woman who turned their CEO into a champagne fountain? I'm shocked. Shocked, I tell you."
"They'll come around." He straightens.” Especially once they see your retention numbers in action."
Wait. What?
But he's already turning to leave. "Ten minutes, Ms. Gallo. Try not to bring any beverages to this meeting."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I call after him. "I only waste the expensive stuff on special occasions!"
I wait until his footsteps fade before pulling up my blog draft. Something about that interaction wasn't quite right. He'd mentioned my retention numbers - the same ones I'd thrown in his face last night. Had he already known about them? Had he researched me before the takeover?
I start typing:
"brEAKING TECH TEA: When is a hostile takeover not just a takeover? When the CEO's playing chess while his board's playing checkers. Stay tuned, tech fam. @MizzByteMyAlgos is about to spill more than just champagne. #TechWorld #CorporateDrama"
I hit post and grab my tablet for the meeting. Time to see what other secrets Drake Enterprises is hiding behind all this transparent glass.
Like Alex, I believe in showing up to battle prepared. Which is why I've swapped my laptop for a tablet - harder to tell I'm actually documenting every red flag I spot rather than taking dutiful notes about corporate synergy or whatever buzzword bingo we're playing today.
The main boardroom is exactly what you'd expect from a company that probably has "disrupt" in its mission statement: All glass (shocking), with views of Seattle's skyline that definitely cost more than my first mortgage.
Around the massive table sit various VPs and directors, all trying very hard to look like they're not staring at me.
I choose a seat directly across from Alex, because if they're going to watch me anyway, I might as well give them a show.
He raises an eyebrow, and I notice his tie is the exact shade of green as his eyes.
That information goes straight into the "things I'm not thinking about" file, right next to the way his hands dwarf his coffee cup.
"Now that we're all here," Gerald Matthews, Head of the Board and Chief Pain in My Ass, clears his throat, "let's discuss the... unusual situation with Innovatech's integration. "
Unusual situation. That's corporate speak for "holy shit, all our developers are jumping ship."
"The numbers from HR are concerning," Barbara Cho adds, shooting me a look that suggests I'm personally responsible for global warming. "We've lost-"
"Sixty percent of senior developers," I cut in, pulling up the exact statistics on my tablet. "With another twenty percent having interviews lined up this week. But you knew that was going to happen, didn't you? It's your standard operating procedure. Slash and burn, then rebuild with cheaper, younger talent who don't remember what the company culture was like before."
Dead silence. I can practically hear Gerald's blood pressure rising.
"Ms. Gallo," he starts, but I'm on a roll.
"Here's what you don't know: Those developers? They're not just taking their code with them. They're taking their relationships. Their knowledge. Their ability to mentor junior developers. You're not just losing talent - you're losing your future pipeline."
Alex leans forward slightly, and I definitely don't notice how his shirt pulls across his shoulders. "You have a solution in mind?"
"Several." I swipe through my tablet. "Starting with immediate retention interviews. Not exit interviews - those are useless. We need to talk to the people who are thinking about leaving before they update their LinkedIn profiles."
"And how do you propose we identify those people?" Barbara asks.
I smile. "Trust me, they're not hiding it. Your Slack channels are probably on fire right now with people asking for references. The question is: what are you willing to change to keep them?"
"Our acquisition strategy is sound," Gerald insists .
"Your strategy," I say, meeting his gaze directly, "is like performing surgery with a chainsaw. Sure, you'll get the job done, but you'll kill the patient in the process."
More silence. I'm starting to enjoy it.
"What would you suggest instead?" Alex asks, and there's something in his voice - a hint of... anticipation? Like he's been waiting for someone to say exactly this.
I pull up my proposal - the real one, not the exposé I'm planning. Because here's the thing about being undercover: sometimes the best way to hide is to tell selective truths.
"First, we stop treating corporate culture like it's a ping pong table in the break room and free coconut water in the fridge." I start sharing my slides to the room's display. "Real culture is about trust. Respect. Actually listening to your people instead of just nodding while thinking about stock options."
"The fact is," I continue, "your current integration method is like trying to make your new stepkids love you by throwing money at them and enforcing strict rules. Spoiler alert: Therapy is cheaper, and you'll all hate each other less."
I catch a few smirks from the younger execs. Even Barbara looks like she's fighting a smile. But it's Alex's reaction I'm watching from the corner of my eye.
The way he's taking notes himself instead of having his assistant do it, the slight tilt of his head that suggests he's actually listening.
Stop noticing things about him, I remind myself firmly. You're here to expose his company's toxic culture, not admire his... attention to detail.
"Your retention interviews need to be conducted by someone they trust," I add, pulling up my next slide. "Not HR, not their direct managers. Someone who-"
"Someone like you?" Gerald interrupts.
"Actually, no." I smile sweetly. "They all watched me get fired yesterday, remember? I'm thinking more along the lines of their team leads. The people in the trenches with them. The ones who-"
My tablet pings with a notification. Someone's shared my latest @MizzByteMyAlgos tweet about mandatory meditation. It's already gaining traction.
I swipe it away quickly, but not before catching Alex's slight frown. For a moment, I worry he saw something, but he's already turning to respond to a question from Barbara.
The meeting continues with the kind of back-and-forth that makes corporate America run: passive-aggressive suggestions wrapped in professional courtesy, thinly veiled threats disguised as concerns, and enough buzzwords to give a dictionary a headache.
By noon, we've agreed to my retention interview strategy, though I suspect Gerald only caved because Alex kept quietly backing my suggestions. Which is... interesting. And suspicious. And absolutely not making me reconsider my plans to expose Drake Enterprises' toxic culture.
Much.
Back in my office, I close the door and pull up my blog draft:
"TECH TRUTH TEA TIME: Sitting in on my first exec meeting at [redacted tech company], and wow, the cognitive dissonance is real. Watching rich white guys in suits talk about 'relating to the average developer' is like watching my nonna try to explain TikTok - painful, slightly offensive, but somehow you can't look away. #TechBroLogic #CorporateCulture"
I'm about to add more when someone knocks on my glass wall - because apparently, privacy is only for people who don't believe in "open door policies."
It's Drake. Again. Because the universe hates me .
"Lunch?" he asks, crossing his impressive arms. “There's a great sushi place around the corner. We should discuss your ideas about team lead integration."
Part of me - the part that's been single since Roberto and remembers what it's like to have lunch with an attractive man - wants to say yes.
The larger, more cynical part - the part that runs @MizzByteMyAlgos and remembers what happened the last time I trusted a man in a nice suit - knows better.
"Rain check," I say, holding up my tablet. "I should finish my notes while they're fresh."
"Another time then." He pauses, then adds, "By the way, have you seen the latest post from that tech whistleblower? The one about mandatory meditation?"
My heart stops. Starts. Stops again.
"Can't say that I have," I lie. "I try to stay away from social media during work hours."
"Shame." He scowls before shaking his head. "It's quite entertaining. Almost as entertaining as watching Gerald try not to have an aneurysm during your presentation."
He leaves before I can respond, which is probably good because my brain is too busy short-circuiting between " he reads my blog " and " holy shit, he reads my blog ."
I wait until he's gone before updating my draft:
"Plot twist: What if the CEO isn't the final boss? What if he's just another player in a bigger game? Stay tuned, tech fam. This rabbit hole goes deeper than we thought. #TechTruth #WatchThisSpace"
I hit post and lean back in my ergonomic chair (which, for the record, is about as comfortable as sitting on Gerald's personality).
One day in, and I'm already questioning everything I thought I knew about Drake Enterprises .
About Alexander Drake.
I close my laptop and head to the break room. If I'm going to survive this undercover operation, I'm going to need coffee.
And maybe a therapist.