Chapter 4: A Holiday of Lies

Chapter 4: A Holiday of Lies

While Sterling Prescott III was likely sipping rum from a coconut on a sun-drenched beach in St. Barts, picturing Leo buried under a mountain of leather-bound books in the firm’s morgue-like library, Leo was in fact sitting in his mother’s cramped, overheated kitchen. The air was thick with the scent of roasting turkey and cinnamon. His younger sister was recounting a story about a disastrous Tinder date, and his mother was pressing a second helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate, clucking about how thin he looked.

“They don’t feed you at that fancy law firm?” she asked, her brow furrowed with the kind of genuine concern that didn't exist within a hundred-block radius of Blackwood & Finch.

“They feed us, Ma,” Leo said with a laugh, the sound feeling foreign and welcome in his own throat. “Just not like this.”

This was the first part of his plan: enjoying a peaceful holiday. He slept in his childhood bed, watched terrible Christmas movies with his family, and felt the bone-deep tension of the past year begin to melt away. But even in this haven of warmth and normalcy, the gears of his revenge were turning. His quiet, observant nature, so often a disadvantage in the boisterous corporate world, was now his greatest asset. He was building his legend—the legend of the martyred associate.

On Christmas Day, after the presents were opened and the family had lapsed into a food coma, Leo made his excuses. “I have to go into the office for a few hours,” he announced, putting on a brave face. “This project won’t wait.”

His mother’s face fell. “On Christmas Day, Leo? That’s not right.”

“It’s just for a bit,” he lied, hating the worry in her eyes. “It’s a big opportunity for me.”

The drive into Manhattan was surreal. The normally choked streets were eerily empty, a concrete canyon hushed by the holiday. He was one of only a handful of souls in the entire sixty-story skyscraper. He badged in, the electronic reader recording his entry time: 3:17 PM, December 25th. The first brick in his alibi.

In the cavernous, silent bullpen, he powered on his computer. He didn’t go to the library. Instead, he plugged in a small, external hard drive. On it was a file named LW_LAW_HIST_FINAL.docx. His prize-winning paper from law school.

He opened the document and began the meticulous process of reformatting it. He changed the fonts to the firm’s standard style. He added a cover page, a table of contents, and a lengthy executive summary written in perfect corporate legalese. He padded it out, expanding footnotes into full paragraphs, turning single sentences into dense, multi-clause monstrosities. It was mind-numbing work, but it was theatrical work. He was creating a prop, a physical manifestation of his lie.

After three hours, he saved the new document—now a formidable 110 pages—to the firm’s server. Then he crafted an email.

To: Sterling Prescott III CC: [Nobody] Subject: Update on Ackerly Shipping Research

Sterling,

Making progress on the Admiralty Law memo. The research is proving more complex than I initially anticipated, especially the conflicts with the Hague Convention, but I’ve uncovered some promising early precedents. I’ll be back in tomorrow to continue. Hope you’re having a good holiday.

Best, Leo Vance

It was a masterpiece of subservience and veiled diligence. It was time-stamped, dated, and sent. Another brick in the wall. Finally, he went into the firm’s billing software and logged his time for the day: Case: Ackerly Shipping. Task: Researching historical salvage law precedents. Time: 12.0 hours. It was an absurd, glorious lie.

He was packing up his bag when a soft voice startled him.

“Burning the midnight oil? Or I guess the afternoon oil, in this case.”

Leo spun around. Elara Hayes stood at the entrance to the bullpen, holding a gift bag. She was dressed down in jeans and a thick wool sweater, a stark contrast to her usual sharp business attire. She looked even more beautiful without the corporate armor.

“Elara,” he said, his heart giving an unwelcome lurch. “What are you doing here?”

“I forgot my Secret Santa gift for my cousin,” she said, holding up the bag with a self-deprecating smile. “My only job was to bring the wine and the gift, and I forgot half of it. What’s your excuse? I thought only I was crazy enough to come in today.”

Here it was. An unscripted opportunity. A chance to cement his narrative with a sympathetic witness. He leaned back against his desk, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of pure, calculated exhaustion.

“Sterling’s orders,” he said, his voice low and weary. “Got a personal directive from Harrington right before break. An urgent research project. Sterling was on his way to St. Barts, so…” He let the sentence hang, letting her fill in the blanks.

Elara’s smile faded, replaced by a look of dawning comprehension, then outrage. “On Christmas Eve? He dumped it on you on Christmas Eve?”

Leo just nodded, looking down at his shoes as if ashamed. “It’s a huge topic. Admiralty Law. Apparently, it’s critical for the Ackerly appeal.”

“Admiralty Law?” She blinked, her sharp legal mind recognizing the absurdity. “We’re a corporate litigation firm. Why are we researching the law of the sea?”

“That’s what I wondered,” Leo said with a sigh. “But the directive came from Harrington. Sterling said it was my only priority until he got back.”

Elara stared at him for a long moment, her perceptive eyes taking in his feigned weariness. She glanced at his glowing monitor, then back at his face. The story, as insane as it was, was just plausible enough, fitting perfectly with everything she knew about Sterling Prescott III.

“That’s beyond awful, Leo,” she said, her voice laced with genuine anger. “That’s predatory. It’s one thing to steal credit, but to intentionally ruin someone’s holiday for his own convenience… that’s a new low, even for him.”

The validation was a heady rush, more potent than he’d expected. It wasn’t just his own private anger anymore; it was shared. It felt real.

“I just have to get it done,” Leo said, playing the part of the dutiful soldier.

“Well,” she said, her tone softening. “If you’re going to be stuck here, you’re at least going to have a decent meal.” She reached into her gift bag and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped container. “My aunt makes the best rugelach in the tristate area. Take it. It’s better than whatever vending machine dinner you were planning.”

She pressed the container into his hand. It was still warm. “Seriously, Leo,” she said, her expression earnest. “Don’t let him break you. Go home, get some sleep. And when you write that memo… I hope you nail it. I hope you write the best damn memo this firm has ever seen.”

She gave him a final, encouraging smile and walked away, leaving Leo standing in the silence of the empty office. He looked at the warm container in his hand, the scent of cinnamon and walnuts rising from it.

Her words echoed in his head. I hope you nail it.

His resolve, already diamond-hard, was now forged in fire. This wasn't just about revenge anymore. It wasn't just about saving his job or punishing a bully. It was about justice. It was about proving that his mind, his work, had value. It was about earning the respect of people like Elara.

Over the next week, he repeated the ritual. He spent his days with his family and his nights and evenings in short, strategic bursts at the office, logging impossible hours, sending periodic “progress” emails, and adding more and more baroque, unnecessary detail to the hundred-page monster he was creating.

By the time New Year’s Day rolled around, he had logged over one hundred hours of pure fiction. The memo was a masterpiece of intimidating heft, a tome of such density that no one would dare question its authenticity. The holiday of lies was over. The stage was set for the unveiling.