7. Noelle
NOELLE
In a single week of working at SME n You, I've noticed an unmistakable fact: Edward has managed to assemble a group of genuinely hardworking, deeply loyal people. The office dynamic is more than just functional; it’s healthy.
People actually enjoy their jobs here. They don't go out of their way to sabotage a colleague, nor do they hover around desks to manufacture problems where none exist. There is an organic efficiency that feels entirely alien to me.
Even more surprising than the lack of structural toxicity is the culture surrounding the man at the top.
The entire team respects Edward, and the sentiment is completely mutual.
They refer to him on a first-name basis, and he jokes around with them like old friends from college.
And when I first walked through the doors on Monday morning, it was nearly impossible to distinguish the individuals running the show from the junior employees.
Compared to the gilded halls of Whitmore Holdings, SME n You is a corporate utopia.
My six years at Whitmore weren't a continuous descent into the toxicity of a nuclear reactor, but things occasionally got cutthroat, and the air was heavy with quiet malice.
It was a world where a polite smile usually preceded a knife in the back.
I would know. My assistant literally stole my boyfriend and my office.
The other inescapable blight on Whitmore Holdings was the sheer volume of cliques.
Office gossip traveled with the speed of a localized shockwave.
You could whisper an observation to a colleague in the breakroom and hear a warped version of it whispered back to you by an intern in the elevator fifteen seconds later. It was exhausting.
Yet, I can't write off my time there as entirely terrible. There were good people at Whitmore. Amazing, brilliant individuals I worked alongside—analysts, compliance clerks, and coordinators who were absolutely crucial to my success as Vice President.
And now, in a cruel twist of fate, I am preparing to exploit my relationships with them.
Having secured Edward’s explicit blessing to begin digging into Jordan & Jordan Consulting, I don't waste time setting the groundwork. I sit in my modest new office, pull up an unlinked personal device, and begin reaching out to a select few from my old department. I choose people whose discretion I can bank on, individuals who know how to keep their mouths shut when shit starts to hit the fan. I steer clear of giving anyone real details of what I’m actually doing.
I don't mention Edward, nor that I am working for him.
Instead, I frame the outreach through a much simpler, more predictable narrative: I am a bitter, wrongfully terminated ex-employee hunting for documentation to leverage a massive payday in a civil suit.
It’s an easy story to sell. It’s exactly what they would expect from a woman who just got unfairly dismissed and publicly humiliated.
The volume of positive responses that flood back within the hour catches me off guard. The digital trail reveals a clear consensus: very few people within the lower tiers of Whitmore Holdings actually respected Graham or his management style.
Two different senior analysts express outright disbelief that I managed to tolerate his behavior for as long as I did, let alone date him. The resentment toward his entitlement has been festering beneath the surface for years.
I reply to each one, assuring them of absolute anonymity, and providing explicit instructions to migrate all further correspondence away from official servers to secure, unverified burner emails.
I send the final message, lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and let out a long, heavy sigh, stretching my arms over my head to release the knot of tension building between my shoulder blades.
When I open my eyes, I shriek in horror, my body flinching violently backward until the wheels of my chair drive me backwards slightly.
Graham is leaning against the doorframe of my workspace, his ankles crossed, a familiar, easy smirk plastered across his face.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is raw.
“Surprise.” He smiles, showing the boyish charm that used to work on me when I was blind enough to mistake indulgence for affection. “That’s no way to greet me, my love.”
His words make my stomach roll. “How did you know where to find me, Graham?”
“Edward came and bragged to the board about employing you,” he says, the casual amusement evident in his tone as he steps into the small room. “He was very high-and-mighty about it, too. I thought I’d come down and see the setup for myself.”
I steady my breathing, forcing my hands to rest flat on my desk so he doesn't see them shake. “You knew your brother had an independent firm?”
“It’s not exactly a state secret, Elle.” He scoffs, looking around my modest square footage with a patronizing tilt of his head. “How do you think he managed to land the CFO gig at Whitmore in the first place?”
“Same as you—nepotism...?” I press, my voice flattening into a dull blade.
Graham throws his head back, a loud, barking laugh escaping him. “Yeah, no. Not quite. This little baby is his private nest egg. Our father practically had to drag him kicking and screaming over to Whitmore Holdings.”
“And he turned right around and did the exact same thing to Zachary Davids,” I mutter under my breath, the pieces of Edward’s history clicking into place with a sudden, clinical clarity.
“Not exactly,” Graham says, dismissing the nuance with a wave of his hand.
“Neither Zach nor Edward wanted a damn thing to do with the legacy businesses. They wanted to build their own playground. Personally, I always thought I was a total shoo-in to take over the entire empire after dad stepped down, especially since Edward so kindly got out of the way all on his own. But, you know. Someone always has to ruin the fun.” He shrugs, completely unbothered by the gravity of his own incompetence.
“You don't sound particularly mad about it.”
“Duh.” He rolls his eyes, pulling his phone from his pocket and checking the screen before sliding it back away.
“I only work because I’m young and I don't have anything better to do, Elle. Dad insisted I needed a title to keep the appearance of a respectable life. Otherwise, I have a trust fund and enough secondary investments to ensure I never have to lift a finger until the day I die.”
“Huh.”
I stare straight ahead, my gaze fixing on the silver button of his vest. I am tracking the sheer, unearned scale of the wealth required to be this careless, this fundamentally detached from reality. It takes a terrifying amount of capital to buy that level of casual honesty.
“So,” I draw a beep breath, then exhale. “Why did you steal the money from my account?”
Graham crosses the remaining floor space, and plonks himself down onto the edge of my desk.
The wood groans slightly under his weight.
“I didn't steal anything from you, babe.
I just had your access credentials removed.
I didn't even know you had your personal funds routing into that specific account.”
“You don't monitor the automated credit notifications?”
He snickers, his tone mocking. “What am I—poor? Come on, Noelle. Someone else handles the minutiae of my portfolio. I couldn't tell you the exact liquid balance of that account right now if you held a loaded gun to my head.”
“Wow.” I grimace. “Good talk, Graham.”
I lean forward just enough to reach my laptop. With smooth, unhurried movements, I begin closing down the sensitive background windows, ensuring the active communication logs with my Whitmore contacts disappear before his eyes can read the screen.
“I want you back,” Graham blurts out, breaking the silence.
I stop mid-movement, my fingers hovering over the trackpad. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve had my fun,” he says, his tone infuriatingly light, as if he were discussing a bad weekend trip to Vegas rather than the destruction of our three-year relationship. “It was dumb. Impulsive. A lapse in judgment. But it’s out of my system now. So, pack up your things and come back.”
I click my laptop shut with a sharp, echoing snap. I push my chair back hard, rolling until there is at least a full yard of floor space separating us.
“What exactly do you think this is, Graham?” My brows furrow in anger. “You honestly think I am going to watch you take my assistant into the bed we shared, stand by while you hand her my office, and just... return? Why? Because you decided you’re done having fun?”
“I said I was sorry.” He looks genuinely incredulous, his features twisting into a pout.
“No, the fuck you did not!” I shake my head, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping me. “You haven't said it once. And honestly, this doesn't feel like an attempt to make amends. You are a spoiled toddler who throws his toys into the dirt until he notices someone else picking them up to play with them.”
“All right. All right.” He cracks a wide, brilliant smile, raising his palms in mock surrender as if I’ve just caught him in a harmless white lie. “You got me, I guess.”
“What?”
“I can’t let him have you,” he says, the playfulness in his voice turning guttural and ugly.
“Have me? Have you completely lost the plot?” I stand up, the chair rolling back until it hits the wall. I fold my arms tightly across my chest. “I work for the man, Graham. I didn't jump ship mid-season. This isn't a basketball draft.”
He chuckles. “Speaking of—did you catch the Lakers game last night? I was courtside. Right next to Drake.” He grins, flashing his teeth, waiting for me to validate the status drop.
“You need to leave. Right now.”
Graham stands up from the desk and takes two long strides, closing the gap until he is standing in my personal space. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, and despite every ounce of sound logic, my pulse starts racing.
“You look so incredibly sexy when you’re mad,” he whispers, his eyes dropping to my lips. “I could almost kiss you right here.”
“Don't make me call security, Graham.” I force the words out through gritted teeth, fighting to keep my pitch steady.
He holds my gaze for one long, suffocating second, then steps back, the predatory pressure lifting instantly.
“I’ll go,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets.
“But think about it, Noelle. Seriously. You can have your old office back. Your title. Full executive access to the accounts again. Everything can go right back to the way it used to be before this mess, babe. Remember all the good times we ha?—”
He reaches out for my hands, but I pull back.
“Come home to me,” he says, taking the cue and turning toward the exit. “I’ll be waiting.”
I stand frozen as his shadow clears the doorway. The sound of his footsteps fades down the corridor before my lungs finally remember how to function. I exhale loudly and retake my seat.
I am going to have to bring this up with Edward immediately. If we are to succeed in unraveling Graham’s fraud, we cannot have him walking in and out of this building willy-nilly.