She had taken it, stripped my name off it, and handed it to Owen Rusk so he could play hero to the CEO.

Today’s interview was a trap — scheduled at a time she knew I couldn’t make, purely to create an HR record labeling me “unprofessional” and “unstable,” discrediting me before I could ever claim ownership of my own work.

But anger was a luxury I couldn’t afford. As I stared at that binder, a far worse realization hit me.

I lunged forward, pressing a bruised finger against the cover.

“Mr. Pierce, what time is it?” I demanded, all formality gone.

He frowned, glancing at his watch. “It’s 9:40. Why?”