Monday arrived with a blade of light, slicing the city into gold and shadow.
In the Clark Group's marble‑floored lobby, conversation faltered as Sarah Edgecombe swept in, radiant and precise. Her laughter rang too brightly, her perfume lingering after her.
She had not missed what happened on Friday night.
The board's attention had shifted.
The centre of gravity had moved.
And Phoebe Gallagher had been standing exactly where Sarah believed she herself belonged.
Sarah smiled. She always smiled.
Then she began to dismantle.
It started small. Files disappeared and reappeared altered. Deadlines shifted without warning. Emails vanished into misrouted silence. Sarah's allies played their parts expertly — accidents, murmurs, feigned concern.
Phoebe endured it with dignity, which only fuelled the campaign.
The turning point came when Phoebe opened the Henderson Project accounts.
Figures didn't align. Funds were missing — not large enough to trigger automatic audit, but patterned. Systemic.
She worked late, peeling back layers until the truth emerged: fake vendors, forged signatures, luxury purchases masked as reimbursements.
And then she saw the names.
Sarah.
Two associates.
And repeatedly flagged — then ignored — approvals from Brian Avery, the CFO.
When Phoebe confronted him, his composure fractured.
"She has emails," Brian admitted quietly. "From years ago. When the crash hit and I moved numbers to keep us alive. She says if I don't cooperate, she'll send them everywhere."
Phoebe sat with the knowledge long after he left. Exposing the fraud would destroy careers. Protecting the company would fracture people already compromised.
She needed air. Distance. Perspective.
The next morning, Phoebe wandered the city, letting ordinariness steady her — until she saw Tom Harrington through a café window.
And then she saw Edwin Harrington.
It was too late to retreat.
They spoke of work, of time, and finally of truth.
Phoebe told them everything.
Tom listened, intent and grave. Edwin surprised him — not with judgment, but recognition.
"Secrets rot," Edwin said finally. "And they rot outward."
When she stood to leave, Edwin pressed a card into her hand.
"Call me if you need help."
After she'd gone, Tom studied his father.
"You don't usually open doors like that."
Edwin smiled faintly. "Perhaps I should have learned sooner."
Later that day, Tom stepped into the street, unsettled.
He called Simon.
"I need to see you," he said simply. "Tonight. No agendas. There are things I can't hold alone anymore."
Simon didn't hesitate. "I'll be there."
The line went dead, leaving behind something charged but unspoken.
Back at the office, Sarah's confidence sharpened toward recklessness. Her machinations grew louder, riskier.
And beneath the surface of the company — beneath glass and reputation — power was shifting.
Truth was moving.
Alliances were forming.
And those who believed themselves untouchable were running out of passages to hide in.