I hated conferences.
Crowded rooms. Buzzwords echoing off glass and steel. People shaking hands like that alone made them powerful. It was all a performance. Theater for the desperate.
And yet here I was, standing beside a goddamn holographic model of our latest surveillance AI while pretending I gave a shit about “revolutionizing behavioral pattern recognition through predictive modeling.”
Sia stood to my left, perfectly composed as always.
Polished in her navy sheath dress, iPad in hand, posture like royalty. No one would’ve guessed she’d nearly exploded two nights ago in my office.
That she’d accused Floris of seduction, manipulation, betrayal. No one would’ve guessed I still didn’t believe her. But I hadn’t had the time to chase the truth.
Not when the board was watching. Not when the future of Brighton Systems was hanging on this ridiculous trade-floor performance.
I nodded through a conversation with a CTO from Stockholm when I felt Sia tense beside me.
I turned.
She was staring past the crowd, jaw locked. Then I saw why. Floris.
She was moving across the floor like she belonged—chin high, laptop slung over one shoulder, her mouth set in that expression I’d come to associate with two things: war and certainty.
My pulse kicked.
She shouldn’t have been here. Not after what I did. Not after what I accused her of. She didn’t look broken.
She looked furious.
“Floris!” Sia moved to intercept her. What a surprise. “I thought you’d left for Boston already.”
But Floris didn’t stop walking. She didn’t even blink. “Cut the shit, Agatha Inez Sharma.”
The words hit the room like a slap. The CTO beside me paused mid-sentence. Conversations stalled. Heads turned.
Sia’s face flickered—one second of pure panic—before the mask snapped back on.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” Floris said. “Just like you don’t know about the wire transfers to Timothy Hartwell. Or the video of my brother. Or the fifteen years you’ve been selling Eric’s secrets while playing the tragic victim.”
I stepped forward. “What’s going on?”
Sia turned to me too quickly. “Eric, Floris is here making wild accusations—”
“I have proof,” Floris said, pulling her laptop around and opening it. “Digital forensics. She’s been playing the long con since day fucking one.”
“That’s impossible,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, my brain was recalibrating. Agatha Inez Sharma. A-I-S.
S-I-A. Fuck.
Sia went still beside me.
“You stupid little bitch,” she hissed under her breath. “You think you can just waltz in here and destroy everything I’ve built?”
“Everything you built on lies and corporate espionage?” Floris’s voice was steel. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think.”
“Fifteen years,” Sia snapped, and suddenly she wasn’t performing anymore. Her voice cracked with something raw, something twisted. “Fifteen fucking years I waited for him to see me. To understand that I was perfect for him. That I knew him better than anyone.”
My stomach dropped. “Sia—”
“And then some lousy American bitch with daddy issues and a dying brother shows up, and suddenly I’m invisible again.”
She was shaking now, eyes glassy, voice rising. “Do you know what it’s like to watch the man you love fall for someone else? Someone inferior?”
Floris stepped back like she’d been slapped. But she didn’t drop her gaze.
“So yes,” Sia said, turning toward me. “Yes, I leaked the videos. Yes, I’ve been feeding information to Timothy. And yes, I arranged for her precious brother to have a little accident with his medication schedule.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
She was unraveling in real-time—venom and obsession and grief curling around each other like snakes in a pit.
“It was all for us,” she said, voice cracking. “So you’d stop being distracted by worthless girls who don’t understand your brilliance.”
The room was silent. A hundred eyes on us. But I only saw two.
Sia and Floris. And suddenly everything made sense.
The inconsistencies. The timeline. The access.
I looked at her—at the woman who’d stood beside me for fifteen years—and I didn’t see loyalty. Now I saw a ghost.
“You’ve been in contact with Timothy Hartwell,” I said, voice low.
She hesitated. “We’ve been… corresponding.”
“You mean you’ve been fucking him while selling my company’s secrets.”
Her face drained of color.
“It’s not like that—”
“How long?”
“Two years. But Eric, you have to understand—”
“Two years of espionage. Two years of pillow talk with my competitor. Two years of pretending you were protecting me while you dismantled everything I built.”
“I did it for you!”
“No,” I said. “You did it because you’re obsessed. And delusional.”
I pulled out my phone.
“Security. I need Sia Morgenstern escorted out of the building. Immediately.”
Her face cracked.
“Eric, please—”
“And alert the police. She’s to be held for questioning. Theft of corporate property, breach of contract, conspiracy. Possibly more.”
Security appeared behind her. She flinched.
“You’re making a mistake,” she whispered. “She’s manipulating you. Just like she manipulated everything.”
“You leaked videos of my dead parents,” I said. “You endangered a child. You betrayed me.”
They took her arms and then she turned to Floris. “This isn’t over.”