A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The ticking clock. “Because this isn’t just historical data,” I said, my voice rising in panic. “I still have friends on the inside who text me. Last night at 2:00 a.m., Northstar’s primary cooling unit in Sector 4 failed again. The night supervisor reset the log to hide the spike, just like they always do. But Sector 4 is currently holding a massive shipment of pediatric antibiotics destined for the state school district.” I looked up, terrified. “That truck leaves the dock at 10:15 a.m. If those vials reach those kids, they are compromised. It’s a health disaster.”
Cassandra scoffed loudly. “This is absurd. She’s hysterical. You’re letting a disgruntled ex-employee spin a conspiracy theory—”
“Cassandra,” I interrupted, turning to her with a glare that could cut glass. “You didn’t schedule me at 8:45 a.m. because you were considering me for the job. Did you?”
Cassandra froze.
I looked at Grayson. “I applied through Crestline Talent—her old firm. I was flagged in their system as a ‘whistleblower risk.’ She called me in today specifically to create an official interview record of my ‘instability’ and ‘poor cultural fit.’ It was a trap to discredit me before I could ever expose Northstar to you.”
Cassandra’s face drained of color. “That is a disgusting, baseless accusation.”
Grayson slowly closed my folder. The air in the room felt electric, heavy with impending violence. He didn’t yell. He didn’t react with shock. He simply picked up his desk phone.
“Cancel my morning,” Grayson said into the receiver. “Call Legal, Compliance, and Owen Rusk from Acquisitions. Tell them to meet me in War Room B right now.” He hung up and looked at me. “We have exactly thirty-five minutes to stop a truck. Let’s go to war.”
War Room B sat on the forty-third floor, hidden behind frosted glass and biometric keypads. It was a cavernous space dominated by a massive mahogany table and screens that spanned the walls. Within minutes, the room filled with the apex predators of Pierce Meridian Group.
Owen Rusk, the Head of Acquisitions, swaggered in last. He was a red-faced man whose expensive suit barely contained his arrogant posture. He looked at me—barefoot, wearing a borrowed blazer over a ruined blouse—and sneered.
“Grayson, what is this? Bring Your Mud to Work Day?” Owen barked, throwing his tablet onto the table.
Grayson stood at the head of the table. “This is Nora Bellamy. She’s an applicant, a former Northstar employee, and currently the only person in this room earning her oxygen. Sit down, Owen.”
Owen bristled but sat. Cassandra slid into a chair opposite me, her eyes darting nervously.
“Ms. Bellamy,” Grayson prompted. “The clock is ticking. Explain.”