Chapter 5: The Unveiling

Chapter 5: The Unveiling

The holidays were over. The cheap tinsel had been unceremoniously ripped down, leaving behind faint marks on the grey fabric of the cubicle walls. The collective mood of Blackwood & Finch had reset from forced festivity to its default state: a low-grade, high-pressure hum of renewed desperation. The air, which a week ago had smelled of pine needles and cinnamon, now smelled of stale coffee and ambition.

Leo felt the change like a shift in barometric pressure. He sat at his desk, a model of calm diligence. His inbox was a fortress, containing his perfectly time-stamped emails to Sterling. His billing records were a work of art, a testament to over one hundred hours of fictional, holiday-ruining labor. And hidden deep on the firm’s server, his 110-page masterpiece lay in wait. He had spent the morning triple-checking every part of his digital alibi. Everything was in place.

He saw Elara near the break room, looking sharp and professional again in a charcoal grey pantsuit. She caught his eye and gave him a questioning look, raising an eyebrow as if to ask, Did you survive? Leo gave her a small, noncommittal nod, a silent promise that the performance was not yet over. Her sympathetic glance was a reminder of the personal stakes, a small anchor of decency in the storm he was about to unleash.

At precisely 9:52 AM, Sterling Prescott III made his grand entrance.

He didn't just walk into the bullpen; he marched, a conquering hero returning from a victorious campaign. He was tanned, the healthy bronze of his skin a stark, offensive contrast to the fluorescent pallor of his colleagues. He wore his most expensive suit, a tailored navy pinstripe that probably cost more than Leo’s car. A new, ridiculously expensive-looking watch glinted on his wrist. He radiated an aura of smug satisfaction, the look of a man who had spent the last two weeks being waited on hand and foot while his subordinate toiled in misery.

He didn't slow his stride as he approached the bullpen, his eyes scanning the sea of cubicles until they locked onto Leo. He didn't even bother to stop at his own corner office first. He was a man on a mission, and Leo was his first and only stop.

He came to a halt in front of Leo’s cubicle, casting a literal shadow over his workspace. He didn't say hello. He didn't ask how Leo’s holiday was.

“The memo,” he demanded, his voice low and imperious. “The partners’ meeting is at ten. Now.”

Leo looked up, arranging his face into a mask of weary subservience. “Of course, Sterling. I was just printing the final copy.”

He swiveled in his chair and reached for the document sitting in the output tray of the small printer beside his desk. He had printed it only minutes before, a calculated bit of stagecraft. The thick stack of pages was still warm, the heat radiating from it a subtle, physical touch of verisimilitude. It was bound in a simple, professional black clip. Its heft was impressive, a dense brick of paper that promised monumental effort.

Leo stood and handed it over.

Sterling took it, his eyes flicking over the cover page. A Comprehensive Research Memorandum on the Historic Precedents Governing Salvage Rights. He felt the weight of it in his hands, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He was clearly impressed by its sheer volume. This was a document that screamed "diligence." This was a document that screamed "partner-track."

Without another word, not a "thank you," not even a grunt of acknowledgement, he turned on his heel. He clutched the memo like a trophy and strode towards the glass-walled boardroom at the far end of the floor, his confident stride echoing the self-assured clicks of his expensive Italian shoes on the polished concrete floor. Several junior associates watched him go, their faces a mixture of fear and envy. They saw a senior associate on the fast track, about to present a masterwork to the firm's leadership.

Leo watched him go, his own expression unreadable. He sank back into his chair, his heart a steady, slow drum. The bait was in the lion’s mouth. The trapdoor was about to swing open.

He opened a blank email and began to type meaningless words, his eyes on the screen but his entire awareness focused on the boardroom down the hall. He could see the silhouettes of the partners through the frosted glass, Harrington’s imposing frame already seated at the head of the table. Sterling entered, took his seat, and placed the memo on the table with a flourish.

The minutes crawled by, each one stretching into an eternity. The normal sounds of the office seemed to amplify and then fade. The tapping of keyboards. The distant ring of a phone. The low murmur of a conference call. Leo’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, frozen. He could feel the tension coiling in his gut, a tight knot of anticipation and risk. This was the point of no return. If they saw through it, if they questioned the premise, if Sterling somehow managed to talk his way out of it…

Seven minutes passed.

Leo’s breath hitched. Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe they’d just skim it, be impressed by the page count, and move on. Maybe Sterling’s sheer, unadulterated confidence would carry the day. The thought sent a jolt of ice through his veins.

Ten minutes.

The silence from the boardroom was absolute. Leo imagined the scene inside: Harrington, leafing through the pages, his expression growing more and more confused. The other partners, glancing at each other, wondering what this arcane treatise on maritime law had to do with their quarterly earnings.

Twelve minutes.

Then, it came.

It wasn't a shout. It was a roar. A primal, tectonic sound of pure, unadulterated fury that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. It was Arthur Harrington’s voice, amplified by rage into a weapon.

“PRESCOTT! MY OFFICE! NOW!”

The sound cracked through the office like a thunderclap. Every phone call stopped mid-sentence. Every conversation died. Every head on the entire floor—from the junior-most paralegal to the senior-most associate—snapped up, eyes wide and fixed on the boardroom door.

The world seemed to hold its breath. In the sudden, shocking silence, the only sound was the frantic, panicked beat of Leo Vance’s own heart, a triumphant drum against the stillness.