Chapter 40
FORTY
The lawyer’s eye twitch
Georgie
Dylan, the security guard, escorts us through the McLaren lobby, and every click of my heels makes me want to vomit. My hands are already gross and clammy. I have my evidence folder (and backup evidence folder, and backup-backup saved to three different clouds), but I still hate confrontations.
Nonetheless, I am determined to do myself proud.
“Back so soon,” I croak at Dylan, trying for humor.
His face does this pained, sympathetic thing. Only days ago, he was marching me out like a criminal, apologizing with his eyes while doing his job. Poor Dylan.
The lift opens and I spot Emma and Tom from marketing. I wave like everything’s normal. They smile back with that awful sympathy smile. The one that says, “We heard what happened and we’re so sorry you’re fucked.”
Jake’s hand finds my elbow. I must be swaying.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs.
I straighten my spine. Yes, I bloody am. I’ve done my research. I believe in myself.
My working hypothesis: they want to scare me into signing something.
An NDA about Patrick. But actually taking me to court?
Unlikely. I ran the cost-benefit analysis—suing someone who lives in their deceased aunt’s house and has ￡20,000 in savings isn’t worth their lawyers’ hourly rate.
This is a billion-pound company. I’m not even a rounding error in their litigation budget.
So, they’ll try intimidation. And I’m going to tell them, very politely and with excellent posture, to go to hell.
I’ve calculated what my severance package should be.
Two years of service, plus compensation for wrongful dismissal. Enough money to survive while I figure out next steps and lick my wounds without having to rush immediately into another job.
Everyone we pass is staring. My face burns but I attempt polite smiles. Like maybe if I’m nice enough, professional enough, they’ll forget they saw me escorted out in tears. No matter what my severance package is, that matters to me.
I feel like we’re going to a funeral. Mine, specifically.
Jake’s dressed smartly in a suit and tie. He usually looks like he’s about to climb something. I’m wearing the same green dress I wore to that dumb presentation all those months ago and now it feels like a bad omen.
The lift ride feels eternal. My chest’s so tight I can’t get proper breaths.
I get even more nervous walking into the conference room, which shouldn’t be possible since my anxiety was already operating at full capacity.
Five people in sharp suits sit around the conference table.
Someone’s taking notes on a yellow legal pad, the writing too small for me to read upside down, though I desperately want to know.
“Please, sit,” one lawyer says, gesturing to chairs that put us smack in the middle.
We’re literally surrounded by legal sharks. I feel like those gazelles in nature documentaries, the ones that freeze right before the lions pounce. Except the gazelles don’t have to sit down first and make small talk.
I sit and give myself an internal pep talk. You have the evidence you need, Georgie. Take these fuckers to town. Do not let them railroad you.
A PA materializes with a tray. “Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you,” I say, though my throat’s parched. What I really need is a Xanax.
“Just water for me,” Jake says, voice tight.
She pours two glasses anyway, setting them on corporate coasters with the McLaren logo.
I reach for mine—need something to do with my trembling hands—but the glass rattles against the table so loudly everyone looks. Brilliant. Very authoritative, Georgie.
I abandon it, pressing my palms flat against my thighs instead, leaving damp handprints on the green fabric.
The door opens.
Patrick walks in first, holding it for Lindsey from HR.
No. No no no.
I didn’t expect him to be here.
This is going to be so much harder with him watching. Though there’s a tiny, vindictive part of me that’s glad he’ll see my evidence. See exactly what his precious Craig did.
He looks like absolute shit.
I hate that my first thought is concern rather than satisfaction.
He’s clearly not sleeping. Dark circles bruise under his eyes.
Stubble shadows his jaw like he gave up halfway through shaving.
His shirt is creased, as if he slept in it—if he slept at all.
Probably the hotel crisis is keeping him up.
Good. He should look like shit.
Our eyes meet for one horrible second. The frown etched into his face is so deep it looks permanent, exhaustion making him look older and harder. He grips the back of his chair white-knuckled before dropping heavily into it.
I straighten my spine. Remember, Georgie: You’re not the same woman they marched out of here.
“Jake and I have twenty minutes,” I announce, voice surprisingly steady. “I suggest you say what you need, then I have some things to discuss.”
I place my folder on the table.
Patrick looks at Jake, then finally at me. His voice comes out rough, like he hasn’t used it in days. “Okay. First, I need to apologize. To you, Georgie.”
Here it comes. The “I’m sorry but we’re destroying your career” speech. I brace myself, mentally preparing my “I’ll see you in court” voice.
“I was wrong. You were right. And I’m truly sorry.”
What?
The words hang there in the air between us, not computing. This sounds… weird.
“The investigation revealed Craig deleted your emails from the server.” His jaw tightens. “Your team helped prove it. They went to extraordinary lengths to recover the data. Craig destroyed evidence, falsified reports.” Another pause. “Craig’s employment has been terminated.”
Oh my God.
Relief crashes over me so hard I nearly sob. I catch myself, take a breath, and lean forward.
“I know.” My voice comes out steady, almost bored. “I have all the evidence right here.”
The room goes silent.
I open my folder with deliberate calm, pulling out the first document. The paper makes a satisfying snap as I slide it across the table.
“Here are the deleted emails Craig thought he’d destroyed.
Retrieved from your backup server—the one he forgot existed because he never paid attention during my infrastructure notes.
” I allow myself a tiny smile. “These show my documented concerns, my recommendations for additional testing, and Craig’s response instructing me to ‘stop being hysterical’ and that he would personally manage QA. ”
Patrick’s jaw tightens. The lawyers lean forward.
“Now,” I continue, pulling out my next document like I’m dealing cards, “let’s discuss how we can rectify this stressful situation.”
I emphasize “stressful” just enough to make the HR representative shift uncomfortably.
“First, a proper severance package.” I slide over my calculations, complete with highlighted Employment Rights Act 1996 references and three comparable tribunal cases from the last year.
“Two years of service, my unused holiday pay—which is considerable since you made me too anxious to take time off—and compensation for wrongful dismissal and defamation of character.”
Deep breath. Don’t let them see your hands shake.
“Second, a written apology from McLaren Hotels, acknowledging that I was not responsible for the system failure and that my work on IRIS was exemplary. To be posted on the company intranet where everyone who saw me escorted out can see it.”
One of the lawyers opens his mouth. I keep going because I watched three hours of legal drama clips on YouTube and I know you don’t let them interrupt. Power move, Georgie. Channel your inner Harvey Specter.
“Third, a reference letter. And not some generic HR template. A proper letter that explicitly states my technical excellence and innovative contributions to McLaren Hotels.”
Patrick doesn’t even glance at my severance calculation. His lawyer snatches it up, nostrils flaring as he reads the number.
Yeah, that’s right, lawyer bitch. I’m very good at maths when I’m angry.
“Done,” Patrick says quietly.
I blink. Once. Twice.
That’s... it?
No negotiation? No counter-offer that’s insulting but technically legal? No threatening me with their army of lawyers?
“All of it,” he adds, still not looking at the numbers. “Whatever you’ve asked for. Done.”
I stare at him. Then at Jake. Then back at Patrick.
“I’m sorry, what?” My voice comes out strangled. “You’re just... agreeing? To all of it?”
“Yes.”
We stare at each other across the table. My heart’s cracking apart because I got everything I demanded except the one thing I actually wanted—for him to have believed me in the first place. For him to love me.
He stares at me with an expression I can’t read—jaw rigid, muscle in his cheek pulsing. His hands are pressed flat against the table like he’s physically holding himself in place.
“Good,” I say.
His eyes never leave mine. “The suspension was wrong. The investigation was wrong. I was wrong. I’m truly sorry.”
My lip trembles.
But sorry doesn’t undo security marching me out. Sorry doesn’t take back him choosing Craig over me. Sorry doesn’t erase standing in his office while he asked if I’d sabotaged his empire out of spite.
It’s such a Patrick response—taking responsibility but keeping it professional, apologizing without getting emotional about it. Even though I can see from his exhausted face that this has been eating at him, he’s not going to have some big emotional moment in front of lawyers and HR.
Just a tired man admitting he made a mistake, in the most controlled way possible.
“Is that it then?” Jake snaps. “You drag her here just to say sorry?”
“No,” Patrick says quietly. “That’s not why you’re here.
” His eyes meet mine again. “I recognize there are significant systemic issues within McLaren Hotels that I’ve allowed to persist. Cultural problems I’ve either ignored or enabled.
I’m committed to addressing them. But that’s not the purpose of today’s meeting. ”
The lawyer I don’t recognize opens his briefcase, pulling out documents. This is it. This is where they make me sign something saying I won’t sue them. NDAs. The “please don’t tell anyone we’re a toxic workplace” paperwork.
McLaren’s lead lawyer, Tom, says something, but I miss it completely. I’m still processing that Craig’s gone, that people finally know I wasn’t lying.
“Sorry,” I say. “Could you repeat that?”
“Of course,” Tom says curtly. “Miss Fitzgerald, we’ve asked you here today to facilitate a transfer of intellectual property rights.”
He grimaces and exchanges a look with the other lawyers.
I’m so confused. Probably exhaustion. “Rights to what?” I ask suspiciously.
Tom slides a document across the table like it physically pains him.
His fingers actually seem to resist letting go of the paper.
“Full ownership of the IRIS hotel management system, including all associated code, documentation, design specifications, and derivative works is being transferred from the McLaren Hotel Group to you.”
The lawyer to his left makes a small choking sound.
“What?” I stare at him, then at the document, then back at him. “I don’t... what do you mean? Why would you...?”
“The terms we’re proposing would grant you complete ownership of the IRIS system,” Tom explains patiently, like he’s talking to someone in shock, which I suppose he is.
“This includes the right to license it back to McLaren Hotels, license it to competing chains, develop it independently, or cease its use entirely. The choice would be entirely yours.”
I’m sorry, what? Did he just say I could license it to their competitors?
“But…” I stare at the document, words swimming. “I don’t… this doesn’t make sense.”
“We’ve also included”—Tom’s eye twitches—“a retroactive compensation package for the intellectual property you’ve already developed. Page seventeen outlines the financial terms.”
Jake grabs the document, flipping through. His eyebrows shoot up at whatever number he sees.
“Additionally,” Tom continues, looking like he might need medical attention, “McLaren Hotels would like to propose a licensing arrangement, should you choose to allow us continued use of the system. The terms are outlined in Appendix B.”
“But I built it on a company laptop,” I blurt out, because my brain’s completely short-circuited.
This is not the conversation I prepared for.
I practiced my “you can’t intimidate me” speech in the mirror.
Is this a trick? “Under employment contract. I was just doing my job. This doesn’t make sense. ”
Jake steps on my foot under the table. Hard.
“It should belong to you,” Patrick says in a low voice. “You were employed as a junior coder, but the work you did, the responsibilities you carried—you basically did the work of an entire senior team. This is simply righting a wrong.”
Oh no. My eyes are getting hot and prickly. Do NOT cry, Georgie. You’ve done so well. Don’t ruin it by ugly crying.
“This is insane,” Jake mutters, still reading. He turns to me with wide eyes, and I know why. This is life-changing money they are proposing. It blows my severance package suggestion out of the water.
“You’ll want your own legal representation to review the documents,” Tom says. “We’ve taken the liberty of providing a list of independent IP lawyers—” he slides another paper across, “—whose fees McLaren Hotels will cover.”
At this point, they might as well throw in a pony.
“Take your time,” Patrick says, standing so abruptly his chair screeches. “Read everything. Make sure you understand what you’re being offered.”
He pauses at the door. “You’ll never have to work for someone like Craig again.” His frown deepens. “Or me.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me sitting there with documents that could change my entire life spread across the table.
Jake whistles low. “Georgie, this is… they’re giving you everything.”
I can barely hear him over the roaring in my ears. Patrick’s just handed me my freedom, my future, everything—except himself.