Chapter 6

"Sign it. You keep your title as an in-house consultant, and once the hotel stabilizes, I’ll assign you a new project. The credit issue ends right here."

It was only two pages long, but the terms were crystal clear: I was to acknowledge that Vivienne held all external design credits for Vale House, and promise never to raise any further objections.

I looked at the signature line on the final page, remembering the bronze plaque from last night.

"And if I don't sign?"

Marcus paused for two seconds.

"Then you'll make things very ugly."

"Ugly for whom?"

He didn't answer.

I pushed the paper back. "I'm not signing."

Marcus picked up the document, his gaze turning icy cold.

"You're far too emotional right now. I’ll give you one day to think it through."

Less than half an hour after he left, whisperings outside my office began to grow louder.

Mara stood by the door, her face pale as she handed me her phone.

"Naomi, you’d better see this first."

Vivienne had posted a video.

She didn't name me directly. In the video, she sat in the Vale House lounge I had designed, her eyes reddened, her voice controlled.

"I didn't want to address this. But over the past two days, someone keeps telling me that I don't deserve to stand here, claiming I'm just a woman who stole someone else's work. I know some people refuse to accept change, and refuse to believe that a woman can start over on her own merit."

She paused, bowing her head to wipe away a tear.

"I won't attack anyone. I just hope people stop using malice to destroy a chance someone worked so hard to earn."

The comment section had already exploded.

Some called her brave, some said she was being suppressed by a workplace senior, while others speculated on who that "someone" was.

To make matters worse, a photo from the hotel's opening night hung in the background of the video—and in the corner of that photo, I was captured standing below the stage, looking pale and grim.

She didn't utter my name.

She didn't have to.

I finally understood why Vivienne had been so calm last night.

She had already prepared another story: she was the misunderstood woman, the hardworking professional turning her life around, while I was the irrational wife losing her sanity over her husband's ex and a job title change.

Marcus didn't stop the video from spreading.

He didn't even send me a single message.

That afternoon, I rushed to Vale House with my work badge.

I needed to retrieve the original drafts and construction notes from the site office, which were locked in the archive cabinet of the old west wing.

They might not be enough to prove everything, but they were the earliest and most complete records of my creation.

The security guard at the hotel entrance stopped me.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hale. You can't go in."

I looked at him. "This is my project."

He avoided my eyes and handed me a tablet.

On the screen was a notice from Marcus's office: Due to "causing internal disruption" during the grand opening, Naomi Hale's project access for Vale House was temporarily frozen. Entry to construction and archive areas without prior authorization was strictly prohibited.

Beneath Marcus’s name as project sponsor was a second approval from the Director of Operations.

Company policy allowed a seventy-two-hour access restriction when an employee was accused of disrupting an active site or creating a risk around confidential project materials.

Marcus could not lock me out by himself. He had simply given Operations a version of events convincing enough to make me look like the risk.

I stared at those words, my work badge digging painfully into my palm.

Right then, a new email popped up on my phone.

The sender was the corporate IT department.

The message called it a scheduled “legacy-file migration.”

Any draft, site note, or version log not marked for preservation would be placed in a deletion queue after forty-eight hours.

A shared project administrator password could place files in that queue.

But the purge itself required final approval from the project sponsor.

Marcus was the project sponsor.

I stood outside the hotel doors, watching guests stream in and out through the revolving doors.

Three days ago, I could name the history behind every single brick here.

Now, Marcus had forty-eight hours to make sure the company record told a version of the story in which I had never existed.

I stood outside the hotel doors, watching guests stream in and out through the revolving doors.

Three days ago, I could name the history behind every single brick here.

Now, they were going to erase every trace of my existence in forty-eight hours.