“Yelling at Caleb in the garage, in front of a maintenance worker… Are you trying to get fired? Are you trying to humiliate this family?”
« He was mistreating an old man, Mom. He called him useless. He threw… »
« That old man is an employee, Aspen. Caleb is your superior. He will one day inherit a significant share of this company. You’re not disrespecting him. That’s simply unthinkable. »
I slump against my front door, the key still in my hand.
« So I’m supposed to just stand here and watch? Is that the rule? Be grateful and keep quiet? »
« Yes! » she cried, her voice breaking with despair. « That’s the rule. You don’t understand what they can do to us, what they can take from us. »
There is a silence, then when she speaks again, her tone changes, becoming unbearably saccharine.
« Honey, you’re intelligent. You’re pretty. Caleb has always liked you. If only you were nicer to him, more accommodating, you know, you wouldn’t have to worry about your rent anymore. You wouldn’t have to worry about anything. He could take care of you. We’d finally have some peace and quiet. »
I feel nauseous. Bile rises in my throat. This isn’t just a suggestion. It’s an attempt at persuasion. She wants me to marry my cousin, the one who just dehumanized an elderly person. She wants me to sell myself for security.
« I have to go, Mom, » I said in a monotone voice.
« Aspen, wait, think about it for a moment… »
I’m hanging up.
I stand in my dark apartment, trembling. I am not a person in their eyes. I am not part of the family. I am a commodity: a potential breeding mare, high-performing and capable of solving problems, whom they can trade for a better position at their table.
And the worst part? The only thing they see as valuable in me—my kindness, my potential as a wife—is a lie. My true value, the code I wrote, the platform I created, is precisely what they are actively and methodically stealing.
It is at this moment that the decision becomes clear.
I’m done being grateful.
The next morning, an email appeared. It was an internal communication, a simple scheduling request, but someone had mistakenly included the entire project manager mailing list instead of just the list of managers. My name was on the first list, but not the second. I was an accidental recipient.
I read the chain. It’s from Evelyn.
Subject: Atlas Licensing Proposal. Draft attached.
Here is the draft proposal for the agreement with SinCorp. I would like it finalized by the end of the day. Marcus, check the financial aspects. Caleb, check the technical specifications and make sure your developer bio is accurate. This is crucial for the Series C funding round. Let’s not mess this up.
My hand trembles when I click on the attachment.
This is a twenty-page proposal to license Project Atlas to a large multinational conglomerate. This is the deal they were discussing in hushed tones. And on page five, under the heading « Our Team, » is a professional photo of Caleb. Below it, one can read:
Caleb Marsh, Vice President of Innovation.
Mr. Marsh is the lead architect and principal solutions developer of the Atlas platform, having designed the predictive AI engine from its inception.
I hold my breath. He didn’t just take credit for himself. He erased me.
I sit there for a full minute. Then I act.
I open a new encrypted folder on a personal USB drive that I keep hidden in my wallet. I start by saving the email — the entire chain, including the headers indicating that I was an accidental recipient.
Next, I consult the Atlas platform’s source code repository. I retrieve the version history: every modification, every module, every line of code from the last eighteen months. My username, acook, appears in 90% of the modifications. Caleb’s username, cmarsh, only appears in minor updates and typo corrections. I export the entire log.
Third, I check our Slack history. I search for all conversations with Caleb.
Aspen, can you take care of this? I’m swamped.
The server’s crashing. I don’t know why. Fix it.
You just need to compile the whole module. I trust you. I’ll check it later.
I save them all in PDF format.
Finally, I access the internal security camera archives. I find the recording from two weeks ago, the day I handed over the finalized technical specifications manual to Atlas. I find the footage: me, standing at Caleb’s desk, handing him the bound, thousand-page document; signing the internal delivery slip without even looking up. I export the footage.
I have the code. I have the messages. I have the video. I have a file full of evidence.
And I have no idea what I’m going to do with it.
That night, it was impossible to get back in. I found myself in the basement, in the buzzing server room—the only quiet place. It was late, past midnight. Rey was there, washing the concrete floor. He didn’t seem surprised to see me.
Sitting on a metal stool, I feel the vibrations of the waiters running through my bones. I don’t know why, but I start talking.
I tell him everything. The project, Caleb, the presentation, the email, the stolen biography. He simply listens. He surrounds me with his slow, steady movements, his presence calming. He doesn’t interrupt me. He just lets me get everything off my chest.
When I finished, my voice was hoarse. « They’re going to sell my work, they’re going to erase me from memory, and they’re going to pocket tens of millions of dollars. And I’m just the grateful niece who’s supposed to keep quiet. »
Rey stops mopping. He leans on the handle, his back turned.
« Have you ever wondered, » he said calmly, « who this place really belongs to? »
I let out a bitter laugh. « My boss? I don’t even know anymore. People always talk about Raymond Cole like he’s a ghost. The founder, dead or missing. From what I understand, he was probably just another greedy old man who built this whole toxic system from the start. »
Rey turns slowly. In the dim light, his face is unreadable, but for a moment, I glimpse again that harsh glimmer, that intensity. It mingles with something else, something almost like pain. He immediately conceals it, his expression reverting to the impassive mask of the concierge.
« Perhaps, » he said, returning to his work. « Or perhaps you should wait and see. »
The USB key in my wallet feels as cold as a small stone. I have proof, but Rey’s question still echoes in my head.
Who does this place really belong to?
I am about to discover more than I ever wanted to know.
My mother insisted I attend another family gathering that weekend. It wasn’t an informal dinner, but a formal planning meeting at Marcus’s country club. The occasion: the 80th birthday of the legendary Raymond Cole.
I find this idea ludicrous. They’re throwing a party for a man they treat like a ghost, a man who supposedly disowned my mother and, by extension, me. But my mother is determined to keep up appearances.
So I go. I sit down on a chair with a stiff back, sipping weak iced tea, while Evelyn and Marcus discuss the cost of the caterer. I excuse myself to go to the restroom.
On my way back, I stop in the corridor. The door to a private office is ajar and I hear my mother’s voice — not anxious this time, but filled with an old, buried anger.
« You have no right to talk about him, Evelyn. You have no right. »
« I have every right to, » Evelyn said icy-cold. « I’m the one who stayed. I’m the one who ran this family and this business while you were playing at being a family with that loser. »
« He was a good man. He was a mechanic. »
“Linda, you ruined everything—your family, your inheritance—to marry a corrupt man. And it broke Daddy’s heart. He never forgave you. That’s why you’re where you are. That’s why you and your daughter have nothing.”
It takes my breath away. It’s the story I’ve been told all my life. My mother, the romantic rebel. My grandfather, the inflexible patriarch.
But suddenly, my mother’s voice returns, and the story falls apart.
« You broke his heart? » she screams, her voice so different from her usual defeated murmur that I jump. « You broke his heart. You and Marcus, circling him like vultures, whispering in his ear that I had betrayed him. You couldn’t stand that I refused to marry the man you had chosen for me. You just wanted to get rid of me so you could have it all. »
« How dare you? » hisses Evelyn.
« That’s the truth. You turned a disagreement into a war. You told him I hated him. You told me he never wanted to see me again. It’s because of you that I haven’t spoken to my own father in twenty years. »
I back away from the door, my heart pounding. I cower in an alcove, my hands clamped over my mouth. A lie. My mother hadn’t left of her own free will. She’d been forced. This wasn’t a love story. A power struggle.
And most importantly, the one that hits me like a ton of bricks: my grandfather is alive. Not just a distant, angry memory. Alive—and apparently still angry. Still under Evelyn’s control.
When the meeting finally ends, my mother is pale and silent, her eyes red. I drive her back to her small apartment; the silence in the car is heavy and oppressive.
« Why didn’t you tell me? » I finally asked, parking the car but without turning off the engine.
Linda refuses to look at me. She stares at her hands, twisting a tissue.
« What can I tell you? That my sister stole my family? That your grandfather is still alive, but so sick and bitter that he refuses to see his only daughter? »
« He’s alive, Mom. And Evelyn said he never forgave you. But you said they forced you. »
She finally looked at me, and defeat returned, replacing the flame I had heard earlier.
“It’s all true, Aspen. I ran away. I married your father against his will. And Raymond Cole… he’s a tough man. He sees the world in black and white: betrayal and loyalty. Evelyn only reinforced that view. She made sure he would only ever see me as betrayal.”
« Where is he? » I asked.
« I don’t know. In Florida, maybe. On private property. Evelyn and Marcus are managing everything. They say his health is too fragile to receive visitors. They say he’s still in charge, that he holds the majority of shares in a trust, but that he’s given them full powers to run the company as they see fit. »
She begins to cry — large, silent tears stream down her cheeks.
“I tried, Aspen. God, I tried. I wanted him to meet you. When you graduated, I sent you a picture. When you got the job at Skyline, I wrote you a letter. Evelyn’s assistant always sends them back. ‘Mr. Cole doesn’t receive personal correspondence.’ She told me to my face last Christmas: ‘He doesn’t want to see the traitor’s daughter.’”
I think of the man in the portrait, the man with Rey’s eyes. A cold, sharp question dispels my confusion.
« Mom, if he hates us so much, why does he still own the shares? Why hasn’t he sold the company? Why hasn’t he just pocketed the money and cut ties once and for all? »
My mother looks perplexed, as if she had never thought of it.
« I don’t know. Evelyn says he’s holding on, that it’s his inheritance. Or maybe… » She lowers her voice to a whisper. « Maybe it’s just about the money. »
But that doesn’t seem right to me. It seems incomplete. A man who holds all the power and entrusts it to those who supposedly betrayed him? It makes no sense.
The tension at work is becoming unbearable. The atmosphere is heavy because of the impending Series C funding round. Caleb is insufferable; he struts around as if he’s already won. He stops by my desk, without even bothering to sit down, just leans over my partition.
« Great news, cousin, » he said, flashing his dazzling white teeth. « The board just approved my appointment as a minority shareholder. My share of the licensing agreement with SinCorp is being directly converted into shares. »
« Congratulations, Caleb, » I said in a neutral voice, without looking up from my code.
« Yes, it’s fantastic. Once the agreement is signed, we’re going to restructure the entire innovation department. A streamlining, you know. »
He taps my screen with his pen.
« I’ve been thinking about it: with your skills, you might be better suited to quality assurance. Testing. Less creative pressure, you know? We need someone reliable to simply tick the boxes. I’ll recommend you. »
He’s threatening me. He’s going to steal my project, get rich off it, then demote me to a dead-end job, all while pretending to be doing me a favor.
« I’ll keep that in mind, Caleb, » I said, squeezing my mouse fingers until my knuckles ached.
Two hours later, the email arrived in my inbox. It was from Human Resources.
Subject: Confidential – Performance Evaluation Follow-up
Dear Aspen,
following recent project developments and feedback from department management, we are scheduling a mandatory performance review to discuss your role, collaborative effectiveness, and future at Skyline Vertex. Please arrive tomorrow at 2:00 PM in meeting room C. Your attendance is required.
It is signed by the human resources manager and copied to Evelyn Marsh, Marcus Cole and Caleb Marsh.
My blood runs cold.
Tomorrow at 2 PM, the precise time I am to present the latest major stability update for the Atlas platform. The one that will make it market-ready.
This is not a criticism. It’s a trap.
They’ll take my final version, then fire me for « lack of collaborative effectiveness, » for incompetence, for questioning Caleb, and claim that my work was done by someone else. They have the motive. They have the power. And now, the meeting is scheduled.
I grab my USB key. I don’t know what to do. I just run.
I find myself in the basement. The server room is my only refuge, the only place where the code’s logic makes sense. I expect to find it empty. But Rey is there. He’s not mopping the floor. He’s standing in front of an open electrical panel, carefully cleaning the conduits with a dry cloth.
The panel is imposing, the true hub of the entire building’s network. On a small folding table beside it, instead of a bottle of cleaning product, lies a roll of plans: a detailed diagram of the Skyline Vertex corporate network—the server architecture, data flows, and security firewalls. Handwritten notes in red ink run through the margins. Notes that look like corrections.
He hears me and looks up, not surprised, but simply aware. He carefully folds the diagram and sets it aside, but not before I have grasped its complexity.
« You too, uh… you have to clean the server racks now? » I asked in a trembling voice.
He gives me a small, dry smile.
He points to the cables. « I’m just dusting everything off. We can’t risk a fire. That would be bad for business. »
I look at the diagram, then I look at it again.
« It looks like you’re defusing a bomb, not cleaning. Are you a maintenance worker or an IT specialist? »
He sneers, a hoarse and deep laugh.
« I dabbled a bit with numbers once upon a time. A long time ago. It’s just old wiring. Nothing complicated. »
I lean against a server rack, the cold metal piercing my shirt. I’m too tired, too scared to hide it.
« They’re trying to fire me, Rey. »
He stops wiping himself and looks at me, his eyes piercing.
« I have a meeting tomorrow. HR. The whole family. It’s a setup. They’re going to take my project — the Atlas platform — and fire me. »
Rey remains silent for a long moment. He studies my face, and once again I feel like I’m the one being analyzed.
« This platform, » he said softly. « Your work. Is it good? »
« It’s not just good, » I said, pride battling my fear. « It’s perfect. It works. It’s mine. And they’re stealing it from me. »
He nods slowly. He points with his cloth to my laptop bag where my USB key is neatly tucked away.
« You have copies of your work, I presume? »
« Yes. Emails, code logs, everything. On their servers and on a USB drive. »
« Good. » He turns back to the panel, but his voice is firm. « Aspen, make an off-system backup. Something completely disconnected from this building. A private email address. An external hard drive. If you don’t have one, make one tonight. »
« Why? » I whisper. « Do you think they’re going to erase my hard drive? »
“I think,” he said, carefully closing the panel door, “that people about to steal something valuable have a habit of ‘accidentally’ pressing the Delete key to erase their tracks. Don’t give them the chance.”
I stare at him. This old man, this concierge, knows a lot about off-site backups and industrial espionage. He knows far too much. He’s the only one in the entire building who’s given me sincere, selfless advice. He’s the only one who supports me.
« Rey, » I said. « Who are you? »
He picks up his mop, the familiar tool returning to his hands, the mask of the simple concierge putting itself back in place.
« I’m just the floor cleaner, kid. Go back and make your backups. And be careful tomorrow. »
He pushes his cart out of the room, leaving me alone with the hum of the waiters.
I go back up to the hall, my mind racing. I’m going to follow his advice. I’m going to fight.
I cross the main hall towards the exit. The ceiling lights are dimmed, but the spotlight on the founder’s portrait remains on. I stop.
I gaze at Raymond Cole’s face: the arrogant tilt of his head, the strength of his shoulders, the piercing gaze. Tonight, the light striking the canvas alters the arrangement of shadows. The painted face seems to come alive, to soften. The arrogance fades, and I perceive the wrinkles, the weight of decades. The light highlights the tip of his cheekbone, the definition of his jaw.
That’s Rey’s face.
It’s not just a resemblance. It’s not a coincidence of bone structure. It’s him.
I can feel the blood draining from my face. I have to lean against the wall, my heart beating so hard I think I’m going to vomit.
It’s him. And he’s watching me. He’s testing me.
The cafe. The garage. The advice in the waiters’ room.
My God.
I turn around and flee the building. The gaze of the portrait burns my back. The image of Rey’s face morphing into a portrait of the founder haunts me all the way home.
I’m not sleeping.
Knowing that I’m being watched, that I’m being tested by the ghost everyone’s whispering about, doesn’t reassure me. I feel like a pawn in a game that’s beyond my control.
My fear is cold and inflexible. But beneath it, a new feeling is taking root: a cold and implacable rage.
The surprise meeting is scheduled for the following day. That morning, HR sends the first salvo: an email – polite and venomous – with an attachment.
Aspen,
to facilitate a constructive discussion tomorrow, we have attached a draft version of your performance review. Please prepare to address these points.
I open the document. It’s a masterpiece of corporate assassination.
My name is at the top, but the person described is a stranger.
« Aspen struggles to embrace the company’s core family values. »
« She lacks a collaborative spirit in her interactions with management. »
« She resists strategic directives imposed by management on key projects. »
They don’t just fire me. They build a case. They meticulously gather written evidence to portray me as insubordinate, difficult and — most importantly — the classic fatal argument: incompatible with the company culture.
It is designed to destroy my credibility, so that if I ever try to fight back, I will come across as a disgruntled and problematic employee.
The meeting is not an execution. It is the moment when the verdict is read after the execution has already taken place.
That night, I didn’t just back up my files. I built an arsenal.
I get home, lock the door, and take the USB drive out of my wallet. I plug it into my personal laptop, a machine that has never been connected to the Skyline Vertex guest Wi-Fi. I create a new encrypted volume, protected by a forty-character password. I transfer everything to it: Evelyn’s email, the server logs, the Slack messages.
But Rey’s warning still echoes in my head. Thieves have a nasty habit of deleting their work. They won’t just fire me. They’ll delete my work and blame me for it.
I need more than a backup of the past. I need a record of the present.
I return to the office at 10 p.m. using my access card. The open space is plunged into darkness, except for the green and blue lights of the servers flashing in the glass-walled computer room. I settle into my desk; the silence is oppressive.
I’m opening the source code of Project Atlas. I’m its architect. I built the house. I know the location of all the secret passages.
For the next three hours, I will be coding.
I created a silent listener: a tiny, invisible snippet of code that I integrated into the core of the platform’s administration system. It’s disguised as a routine performance patch. From now on, every action performed with an executive-level administrator account will be logged. Not just the login, but the action itself: every request, every data modification, every file deletion.
And the log isn’t stored on the main server, the one they can delete. It’s routed, encrypted, to a third-party private cloud server that I set up under a false name and paid for with cash using a prepaid debit card.
They think they own the system. I remind them that I have the plans.
I was about to leave when I had a better idea — a riskier idea.
I know they need my latest update for the platform to be stable enough for sales. They plan to remove it during the performance review. I leave my device on. I leave my session unlocked—a serious offense that would normally be grounds for dismissal.
Tonight, it’s bait.
I go down to the basement, to the break room (Rey’s territory), to get a coffee I don’t want, all while keeping my phone in my hand. I give myself five minutes.
When I return, walking silently on the carpet, my trap has closed.
Caleb is sitting in my chair. At my desk. He’s so arrogant, so self-assured, that he doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. He’s on the phone, speakerphone on, his voice low and confident.
“No, no, I’m late at the office,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m finalizing the proposal for the agreement with SinCorp. Yes, I had to get my hands dirty, dive into the code. I’m adding my final developer bio.”
I stop three meters behind him, hidden in the shadow of a concrete pillar. I watch him click on the proposal document – the one on my desk. He scrolls to page five.
I see my name: Technical Manager, Aspen Cook.
Her fingers move across my keyboard. Tap tap tap. Backspace backspace backspace.
« Developed and designed by Caleb Marsh, Vice President of Innovation. »
He clicks on « Save ». Then he opens his email, attaches the file and sends it to his aunt Evelyn with the following message:
« The final version is ready for SinCorp. It looks good. »
I hold my breath. I raise my phone, black screen, and press the record button on the video app. I hold it still, my hand resting against the pillar.
I film everything: the back of his head, my screen, his hands on my keyboard. I film him deleting my name and typing his own. I film him clicking Send.
He stretches, yawns, and locks my computer while whistling as he walks away towards the elevators.
I stand in the dark, my heart pounding, watching the recording on my phone.
Proof. Undeniable.
The last piece of the puzzle fell into my lap the next morning.
Just before dawn, I was still at my desk, exhausted, when an automated email arrived in my inbox.
Subject: CCTV_SYS Alert – Storage Bay 4 Corruption Warning
This is a system alert sent to all project managers and department heads. It indicates that one of the hard drives containing the CCTV recordings has failed. As per protocol, the system automatically attaches a random two-minute video clip from the affected drive as a diagnostic file. Most users would delete it, considering it spam.
I open it.
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