POV Adrian
Finding out who leaked that photo eats my evening—and by the next day, I have the answer.
I start with the obvious suspects - competitors, disgruntled employees, anyone with access to old charity gala photos. But something about the timing feels personal. Too convenient. Too calculated.
“Pull the security footage from last week,” I tell my head of security. “Anyone who accessed the executive floor after hours.”
“Yes, sir. Looking for anything specific?”
“Someone with a grudge and terrible judgment.”
The footage shows exactly what I expected: Brittany, staying late Tuesday night, using her keycard to access areas she has no business being in. Including my office.
“What a surprise,” I mutter, watching her rifling through files on my desk. Files that include printed photos from various corporate events, including that charity gala from six months ago.
I call our IT department. “I need you to trace where a specific image originated. Can you track digital footprints?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Marlowe. Send us the photo.”
Twenty minutes later, they call back. “The image was uploaded from a Marlowe Enterprises IP address. Tuesday night, 11:47 PM.”
Brittany’s computer. Of course.
The rage that builds in my chest isn’t just anger—it’s that cold, calculating fury that turns executives into apex predators.
The pattern screams Brittany: Noah was her midnight access earlier, Plan B with a nervous smile. Naive doesn’t make him innocent—he still swiped the badge, still plugged in the drive. But Brittany… She didn’t just leak a photo; she aimed to gut Emilia’s credibility and mine in one surgical strike.
Time for consequences.
I call an emergency press conference for noon. No explanation, no advance warning. Just “be there or miss the story of the year.”
The conference room fills with reporters who look like they’re expecting another boring corporate announcement. They have no idea they’re about to witness a public execution.
I walk to the podium wearing my best destroyer-of-worlds suit, the one that makes grown CEOs wet themselves during hostile takeovers.
“Yesterday, a photo surfaced suggesting infidelity on my part,” I begin, voice carrying across the room like a blade. “This photo was deliberately leaked by a Marlowe Enterprises employee as an act of sabotage.”
The reporters lean forward like sharks smelling blood.
“The employee in question, Brittany Hicks, doctored metadata to make a six-month-old photo appear recent. She accessed my office illegally, stole private materials, and attempted to destroy both my reputation and that of my fiancée.”
I pause, letting that sink in. “This was not journalism. This was revenge by someone whose professional incompetence cost her opportunities she felt entitled to.”
Cameras flash like strobe lights. I can practically hear career obituaries being written in real time.
“Furthermore, I want to be absolutely clear about my relationship with Emilia Hart. Our engagement is real. Our commitment is real. And anyone who suggests otherwise can expect to hear from our legal team.”
The words feel heavier than they should. Real. When did that word start meaning something?
“Brittany Hicks’s employment with Marlowe Enterprises is terminated, effective immediately.”
I gesture to security, who escort a pale-faced Brittany from where she’d been standing near the back of the room. She looks like she just watched her entire world collapse, which is exactly what happened.
“Any questions?”
A reporter from Business Weekly raises her hand. “Mr. Marlowe, how did you discover Ms. Hicks was responsible?”
“Security footage, IT forensics, and the fact that revenge makes people sloppy.” I smile without warmth. “Ms. Hicks left a digital trail a first-year intern could follow.”
Another reporter: “Will you be pursuing legal action?”
“That’s being determined by our legal team. But corporate sabotage carries serious consequences.”
The press conference ends with the kind of feeding frenzy that makes careers and destroys others. I walk out knowing Brittany’s name will be radioactive in corporate circles for the next decade.
Back in my office, the senior staff meeting I called is already assembled. Brittany sits at the conference table looking like she’s facing a firing squad, which she is.
“Brittany,” I say, settling into my chair with deliberate calm. “You’re fired.”
“You can’t do this!” Her voice cracks. “I’ve worked here for three years!”
“You worked here. Past tense. Security will escort you out after you return your keycard and sign the termination paperwork.”
“This is about her, isn’t it?” Brittany’s composure completely shatters. “Your precious fiancée with her fake smile and designer clothes!”
The senior staff exchanges uncomfortable glances. Watching someone’s career die in real time makes even hardened executives squirm.
“This is about corporate sabotage and professional misconduct,” I say flatly. “Your personal feelings about Ms. Hart are irrelevant.”
“She’s not better than me!” Brittany stands up, voice rising to a shriek. “She just came with a price tag!”
The room goes dead silent. Even the air conditioning seems to stop.
“Security,” I say calmly.
Two guards step forward, but Brittany’s already storming toward the door. “You’ll regret this! Both of you!”
Her heels click across the marble floor like gunshots until the elevator doors close behind her and blessed silence returns.
“Well,” says our CFO after a moment. “That was dramatic.”
“That was necessary,” I correct.
The meeting disbands with everyone looking slightly traumatized. Watching someone implode never gets comfortable, even when they deserve it.
I sit in my office afterward, processing the fact that I just publicly declared my fake engagement real. The words echo in my head: *Our engagement is real. Our commitment is real.*
When did lying start feeling like truth?
My phone sits on the desk like it’s daring me to make the call I know I need to make. The call that will change everything between Emilia and me.
I pick it up and dial her number.
She answers on the second ring. “Did you fix it?”
“Brittany’s been dealt with. Press conference went nuclear. Your reputation is intact.”
“Good.”
“Emilia.” I pause, realizing what I’m about to say will shift our entire arrangement. “You need to move in with me.”