Chapter 3: The Betrayal

The walk to Director Evelyn Reed's office felt like a death march through the administrative building's sterile corridors. Leo's camera bag hung heavy on his shoulder, weighted with the personal items he'd been told to bring "just in case." The euphemism wasn't lost on him – Karen Sterling had made her intentions crystal clear.

Director Reed's corner office occupied prime real estate on the fourth floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the university's manicured quad. Evelyn Reed herself sat behind an imposing mahogany desk that probably cost more than Leo's annual salary, her silver hair pulled back in an elegant chignon that screamed old money and older traditions.

Karen Sterling was already there, seated in one of the leather chairs across from the Director's desk, her manila folder of documentation spread open like evidence at a trial. She offered Leo a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on a shark.

"Leo, thank you for coming," Director Reed said without looking up from the papers before her. Her voice carried the lazy authority of someone who'd never been questioned in her life. "Please, sit."

Leo settled into the remaining chair, acutely aware that this was an ambush disguised as a meeting. He'd walked into rooms like this before – in his freelance days, facing clients who'd already decided not to pay him, who just needed to go through the motions of justification.

"I'll get straight to the point," Director Reed continued, finally looking at him with the kind of mild disappointment she might reserve for a student caught cheating. "Karen has brought some concerning issues to my attention regarding your performance and adherence to university policies."

"I see," Leo said carefully. "I'd be happy to address any concerns."

Karen cleared her throat delicately. "Director Reed, as I outlined in my report, we have documented instances of tardiness, extended breaks, and violation of campus smoking policies. More concerning is Leo's apparent difficulty adapting to our collaborative, process-oriented work environment."

Leo felt his pulse quicken. "I'd like to respond to those allegations with some context—"

"Of course," Director Reed said, settling back in her chair. "We want to be fair."

Leo pulled out his laptop and turned it toward them, displaying his analytics dashboard. "In the three weeks since I started, the university's YouTube channel has grown from 400 subscribers to over 18,000. Our videos have generated over 300,000 total views, with engagement rates averaging 91%. The admissions office reports a 12% increase in applications since the content launched."

He clicked through to specific examples. "The campus tour video has been shared 2,400 times across social platforms. The alumni spotlight generated three major donor inquiries. The faculty series is being used by HR for recruitment."

Karen's smile never wavered. "Numbers can be manipulated, Director Reed. What's more important is whether Leo understands our institutional values and professional standards."

"I'm sorry, manipulated?" Leo's voice sharpened. "These are direct metrics from YouTube's analytics platform. They're objective measurements of engagement and reach."

"Leo," Director Reed said with the patience of someone addressing a child, "while we appreciate enthusiasm, Karen's concerns go deeper than mere statistics. She's raised questions about your ability to function within our established frameworks."

Leo stared at her. "What frameworks, specifically?"

Karen leaned forward. "Punctuality, for one. Professional conduct. Adherence to approval processes." She paused meaningfully. "Representing the university's values in your personal behavior."

"You mean smoking cigarettes on my own time, off campus property?"

"Image matters, Leo," Director Reed said. "We're not just a university – we're a brand. Every employee is an ambassador for that brand."

The room fell silent. Leo looked between the two women – Karen with her triumphant smile, Director Reed with her expression of mild distaste – and realized with crystalline clarity that this conversation had been over before it began. The data didn't matter. The results didn't matter. Nothing he said would matter.

They had already decided.

"I understand," Leo said quietly, and something in his tone made Karen's smile falter slightly.

"I'm glad you do," Director Reed continued. "Because we've decided that this position might not be the right fit for your... particular skill set and background."

Your particular background. There it was again, that dismissive phrase that reduced his years of experience and creative vision to a class marker they found distasteful.

"We'll be terminating your employment effective immediately," Karen added, unable to keep the satisfaction from her voice. "Of course, we'll provide the standard two weeks' severance as outlined in your contract."

Leo nodded slowly, his mind strangely calm. "And my replacement?"

"We've decided to take a different approach," Karen said, practically glowing with self-satisfaction. "Rather than trying to manage such an ambitious content schedule with internal resources, we're going to hire a professional production house. A real production company with proper credentials and industry experience."

A professional production house. Leo felt something cold and sharp crystallize in his chest. After firing him for being unable to meet impossible demands with broken equipment, they were going to outsource the work to a team of professionals with proper resources.

The irony was so perfect it was almost beautiful.

"That sounds like a wise decision," Leo said, and Karen blinked in surprise at his calm agreement. "You'll definitely get better results working with experienced professionals."

"Yes, well." Director Reed seemed slightly unsettled by his lack of protests. "I'm sure you understand this is nothing personal. Sometimes these things just don't work out."

"Of course." Leo stood and shouldered his bag. "How long do I have to collect my things?"

Karen checked her watch with obvious relish. "Facilities will need to secure your workspace by noon. That gives you about an hour."

"Very generous." Leo turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Can I ask which production companies you're considering?"

"We haven't made any decisions yet," Director Reed said carefully.

"Of course not. But when you do start reaching out, you might want to be careful about your contact research. The production industry is smaller than you think, and reputation matters." Leo's smile was perfectly professional. "Wouldn't want to waste time with the wrong people."

Something flickered in Karen's eyes – the first hint of uncertainty he'd seen from her.

"Thank you for the advice," Director Reed said dismissively.

"My pleasure. Good luck with everything."

Leo walked out of the office with steady steps, his expression neutral until the elevator doors closed behind him. Only then did he allow himself a thin smile.

Karen Sterling thought she'd won. She'd fired the working-class upstart who didn't know his place, and now she'd get to play with the big boys – real production companies with proper credentials and industry connections.

What she didn't know was that Leo Vance had spent years building relationships with those very companies. He knew every player in the regional production scene, from the boutique agencies to the major houses. More importantly, he knew exactly how they operated, what they charged, and what it took to make them dance to his tune.

As the elevator descended toward his basement office, Leo was already three moves ahead in a game Karen didn't even know she was playing.

She wanted to hire professionals?

He'd give her professionals.

But they'd be his professionals, playing by his rules, with his finger on every pulse of the operation.

Karen Sterling had just made the biggest mistake of her career.

She'd given Leo Vance exactly what he needed to destroy her.