Amir lowered his voice. “Look at who approved it,” he whispered, and zoomed in. The login belonged to Helen Whitaker, stamped the same afternoon she handed me the leather folder. Beside it, a note read: “Reduce to nominal until retention agreement is signed. Reallocate difference.” My mouth went dry. This was not a mistake or a message. It was leverage, and I was the one being squeezed.

Then Amir scrolled down, and my stomach dropped. My $241,800 had not vanished. It had been moved into an account labeled “Executive Discretionary Pool,” and Trevor’s special award had come from the same place. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Amir darkened the screen just as Dennis appeared in the doorway, smiling thinly. “Owen,” he said, “what exactly are you doing in finance?”