Chapter 2

At three that afternoon, we held our weekly all-hands project meeting.

A dozen managers sat around the conference table. Luke was slouched in the back corner, twirling a pen, his eyelids half-drooped in complete boredom.

I went over project milestones for ten minutes. Glancing his way, I saw his notebook hadn't even been cracked open.

"Luke."

He snapped upright so fast the pen slipped through his fingers and clattered loudly against the hardwood floor.

"Y-Yes! Present, Peyton."

A few senior managers smirked into their coffee mugs.

I kept my expression deadpan. "Did you finish the client proposal assigned to you last week?"

He stood up, scratched the back of his neck, and turned on his practiced boyish charm. "Almost, almost done! Just putting on the finishing touches. I'll definitely have it on your desk tomorrow."

"By what time tomorrow?"

"Uh—before ten a.m. sharp."

"Fine," I said, flipping open a folder. "Also, your ninety-day probation review begins next week. HR will administer standard written evaluations and a performance defense. Be prepared."

The smile on his face froze for a fraction of a second.

He recovered fast, layering on an air of wounded innocence:

"Peyton... I've only been here a little over two months. Do you really feel like my work isn't cutting it?"

I refused to take the bait.

"Evaluations are standard corporate policy. Every new hire undergoes the exact same process. If you feel it’s unfair, feel free to file a grievance with HR."

The room fell dead silent.

Luke’s lips parted, but he thought better of it and sank slowly back into his chair.

After the meeting adjourned, he lingered until he was right beside me in the hallway. "Peyton," he murmured softly.

I paused.

"Are you under a lot of stress lately? You look exhausted today. How about I take you out to dinner tonight so you can unwind?"

His tone was warm, gentle, and utterly considerate—no different from any other day.

Yet looking at that fresh face, all my brain could replay was his whisper behind the breakroom door: That cash cow... Once she kicks the bucket, every single dime goes to me.

"No thanks," I said, turning away with a neutral voice. "I have plans."

He blinked, stunned. The smile stayed plastered on his face, but a flicker of raw annoyance flashed deep in his eyes.

"Right. Keep up the hard work then."

He turned and strutted down the hall, suddenly energetic, clapping a coworker on the shoulder with a loud, laughing joke.

Standing in that corridor, the boy I had raised for ten years suddenly looked like a terrifying stranger.

At ten o'clock the next morning, Luke walked in and handed over the proposal right on time.

I skimmed through it. Clean formatting, decent wording, even three alternative pitch decks.

On the surface, it looked presentable.

But I had climbed the corporate ladder from frontline sales; by page three, the cracks were glaring.

Every single key metric had been pulled straight from generic internet articles. Not a single scrap of real market research.

A sloppy cut-and-paste job that couldn't have taken more than two hours.

"You actually thought this would pass?" I shoved the document back across the desk and leaned against my chair, staring him down.

His eyes darted sideways. He clasped his hands over his knees, instantly morphing into the humble student eager to learn. "Peyton, just point out the flaws. I’ll fix them right away."

"It's not about fixing a few lines," I said, tapping the mahogany desktop. "The client asked for a bespoke strategy. You handed them a cookie-cutter template. Who are you trying to fool?"

"Well, I was under a crazy tight deadline—"

"You had two full weeks. That was enough time to write three customized decks."

His mouth opened, then snapped shut.

I waved a hand dismissively. "Take it back and redo it. I want it on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. If the quality is still this pathetic, you already know where your probation score will land."

He picked up the papers. His knuckles whitened as he pinched the edge of the pages.

At the office door, he glanced back over his shoulder. The tilt of his lips was pitched to perfection—thirty percent guilt, seventy percent heartbreak.

"Peyton, I've just been in a really bad headspace lately, and it messed up my workflow. Please give me one more shot. I promise I won't let you down."

I gave him no reply.

Naturally, Luke didn't redo the proposal.

The next afternoon came and went. The deadline passed, and his desk remained completely empty.

I sent my assistant to track him down. Thirty minutes later, she came back with word that Luke had supposedly gone off-site to meet a client—and had conveniently left his work phone behind.