Chapter Sixteen Julian
Idon’t expect the meeting.
The morning starts like any other. Coffee in the dark kitchen. The drive to work on autopilot. The office hums around me—keyboards clicking, voices murmuring, the ordinary sounds of a world still in order. My assistant’s voice comes through the intercom, crisp and professional.
“Mr. Ashworth, the boss wants to see you. Urgently.”
I don’t think much of it at first. Urgent meetings happen. Projects go off track. Clients complain. There is always something. I walk to his office without hurry, straightening my tie, running a hand through my hair. I am not worried. I have nothing to worry about.
Briana is already there when I enter. Sitting across from his desk, posture stiff.
That’s the first crack of unease.
The sight of her stops me cold. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
She won’t look at me. Her eyes are fixed on some invisible point on the desk, her shoulders locked up into a defensive posture.
Her jaw is a hard, white knot. Under the table, I see the violent frantic blur of her knee—that same twitchy, nervous pulse I’ve seen a hundred times.
And then I see the others.
Legal is present. Sarah Chen, head of corporate counsel. Sharp suit, sharp glasses, a tablet in front of her with a screen full of documents I can’t read from here.
HR is present. Caleb Webb. A man I have met twice before, both times for matters that felt bureaucratic and distant.
That’s when I know.
Something’s very wrong.
My boss, Chris Vance, doesn’t sit. He stays standing behind his desk, so I remain on my feet.
That’s the second crack.
He has always sat. Every meeting, every check-in, every time I’ve walked through that door—he’s been behind his desk, leaning back, hands folded over his stomach, comfortable. In charge without trying. But today he’s standing. Today he’s not comfortable.
“Julian,” he says. His voice is different today.
Formal. Distant. He has never spoken to me like this.
In meetings, in hallways, in the easy shorthand of colleagues who have worked together for years, his voice came loose, unguarded.
Today, it’s none of those things. “As you know, the company experienced a significant cybersecurity breach last month.”
I nod. The whole department has been dealing with the fallout.
Forensic auditors were brought in. Systems were locked down.
They’ve been going through it all. Every login, every transaction, every trace we’ve left behind over the past year and a half.
Pulling it apart, piece by piece, trying to understand where it started. Trying to figure out who to blame.
“During the post-breach forensic audit,” he continues, “we identified financial irregularities linked directly to the incident.”
My brow furrows. “What kind of irregularities?”
“Misappropriation of funds,” Sarah says. “Funds were rerouted from dormant project accounts. Small amounts, over several months, designed to avoid detection. Each transfer was under the threshold that would trigger automated review. The total, however, is significant.”
“How significant?”
“Just under four hundred thousand dollars.”
Four hundred thousand.
That is not a rounding error. That is not a mistake in accounting. That is theft.
“The transactions,” Chris adds, “were authenticated using two sets of internal credentials. Yours, Julian. And yours, Briana.”
Briana stiffens in her chair. Her knee stops bouncing.
My attention snaps to her.
She is staring at the table, her hands still knotted, her jaw still tight. But there is something else now—a tremor in her lower lip, a flush rising on her neck.
I shake my head, disbelief surging. “I didn’t do anything. I’ve never touched company funds like that.”
Sarah Chen doesn’t blink. She looks at me with the same blank, predatory interest one might show a laboratory rat that has started growing an extra limb.
“We’re presenting the evidence as we have it.
The digital trail shows actions taken under both your credentials and Ms. Cross’s—timestamps, IP addresses, authorization logs. ”
“Then my login was used without my knowledge,” I insist, my mind racing. “Someone had my credentials. My password, my access—someone took them.”
Chris studies me. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
I look at Briana again.
The paleness of her skin. The hard line of her shoulders.
The absence of surprise. She stares at that one spot on the table, her jaw locked so tight I expect to hear her molars crack.
She hasn’t asked a single question. Hasn’t demanded to see the evidence.
She sits in a room where she’s been accused of stealing four hundred thousand dollars from her employer, and her mouth stays shut.
The timeline locks into place with a sickening clarity.
The transfers started months ago. The same months we were together. She had endless chances to watch me type my password, to use my computer while I stepped out, to scroll through my files alone.
I see it now. Briana leaning over my shoulder while I logged in, her breath warm against my ear.
Briana sitting at my desk while I took a call in the hallway, her fingers on my keyboard, her eyes scanning my screen.
Briana staying late with me night after night in the empty office, smiling, touching my arm, whispering close while her other hand helped empty the company’s accounts.
She set me up.
She stole from the company. She used my credentials.
She did this.
I open my mouth to say just that when she whispers, barely audible, “I didn’t want to do it.”
Her voice trembles with a softness that’s supposed to sound fragile. But I know her. I see the act underneath. She rehearsed this line in a mirror somewhere before walking into this room.
I turn fully toward her. “What are you talking about?”
She looks up then. Her eyes wet, face crumbling.
“He made me do it,” she says suddenly, the words aimed at my boss, at Legal, at HR.
I feel the floor tilt beneath me. The walls close in. The ceiling presses down. I grab the back of a chair to keep from falling.
Chris’s eyes narrow. “Who?”
Briana’s gaze darts to me. Holds for a fraction of a second. Then drops.
“Julian,” she sniffles, her voice still trembling but gaining traction. “He told me it was temporary. That no one would notice. He said it was how people like him survived corporate politics. I was scared.”
I stare at her. My blood feels slushy, thick and freezing in my veins.
“You’re lying,” I rasp. “She’s lying.”
She sobs harder, shoulders shaking. “I loved him. I trusted him. He said he’d protect me.”
“That’s not true,” I snap. “That’s not what happened—”
Caleb finally cuts in. “Briana, are you stating Julian coerced you into these activities?”
Coerced.
The word turns my stomach.
She nods rapidly, tears streaking her makeup. “Yes. He had power over me. My position. My future here. I didn’t feel like I could say no.”
My vision blurs at the edges.
She is not just accusing me of theft. She is accusing me of exploiting her—of using my seniority, my authority, my position to force her into criminal activity.
“This is insane,” I say, turning to my boss. “You know me. You know my record. I would never do anything like this. I don’t need to. I make more than enough money. Why would I steal?”
My record is good. My performance reviews are excellent. I have never been written up, never been disciplined, never been accused of anything more serious than missing a deadline.
I search his face for recognition. For the man who trusted me, who promoted me, who said I had a future here. His face gives me nothing. He is not my mentor right now. He is my employer. And employers protect the company.
Briana wipes her face with the back of her hand and lets out a small, wet hiccup.
It’s a revolting sound. Her hand shakes.
I want to reach across the table and shake her until her teeth rattle, just to see if the “coerced” mask would slip.
Yet, my arms sit there, heavy and useless, like they belong to someone else.
“I-I have proof,” she says, her voice tight with strain. “I saved everything.”
My heart pounds so violently I press a hand to my chest without thinking. “What proof?” I whisper.
She pulls out her phone.
Sarah leans forward. Caleb shifts in his seat.
Briana’s thumb trembles as she taps the screen, then she turns it outward, facing my boss.
Photos.
Us.
The images are damning. Her head on my shoulder in my office after hours, her smile soft, my arm around her.
I remember that night. She stayed late, brought me coffee, and asked about my day.
I thought nothing of it. I’d felt a surge of dull, ego-driven warmth, even.
I never considered how it would look, how someone could use it, how a photograph could transform from memory into evidence.
A selfie taken in a bathroom mirror I do not remember standing in.
The photo is grainy, poorly lit, but our faces are clear.
Mine. Hers. My arm around her waist. Her lips pressed to my cheek.
She wears a dress I bought her for a weekend we spent together.
A thin, expensive slip of silk that felt like nothing in my hands and I had paid for in cash, while my wife stayed home, cooking dinner, waiting for me to return.
Then the messages.
With every swipe of her finger, my stomach plummets. A cold, wet stone falling through the center of my body.
Late-night texts. Flirty banter. Promises I never should have made.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
I’ll take care of you.
No one has to know.
Those words belong to me. I wrote them in the dark, past midnight, while Nora slept beside me. Hours when I refused to consider consequences, refused to picture anyone’s pain but my own wanting. I had typed each letter without a single thought for what comes after.