Westley You Are Late Chapter 26
After the wedding, I threw myself back into my work.
The project Sofia had coveted for over a year was finally entering its final selection round.
The Sinclair Group had originally been my strongest competitor.
After Thatcher and I got married, he voluntarily withdrew from the running.
I asked him if he regretted it.
He loosened his tie slightly.
“I do.”
“Then why withdraw?”
“What else was I supposed to do?” he asked, looking at me. “Let people say you only got the project because of me?”
I closed the file in my hands.
“I’m not afraid of what people say.”
“But I am,” he said, ruffling my hair. “I’m afraid that if you win, you’ll try to give me half the credit.”
“Brielle, you did seventeen drafts. No one gets to erase that.”
On the day of the final presentation, I took the stage alone.
On the screen behind me, I displayed every version of the proposal, one by one.
From the first page, which was nothing more than a rough outline, to the final, data-rich version.
Several of the timestamps were from the dead of night.
One version had been saved the day after I was released from the ER.
A member of the panel asked, “Were you solely responsible for this project from start to finish?”
“Yes.”
I opened the earliest file.
“The entire version history is right here.”
The panel examined it meticulously.
Just before the results were to be announced, Sofia posted on social media.
She claimed the project had originally been hers.
She also claimed I had used the influence of the Pierce and Sinclair families to steal her opportunity.
When word of her post reached the conference room, all eyes turned to me.
I didn’t offer an explanation.
I simply requested that all seventeen versions of my proposal, along with their revision history, be displayed on the main screen again.
Then I asked, “Which version did Sofia contribute to?”
No one could answer.
She couldn’t produce a single page of work that was her own.
Ten minutes later, the review panel resumed their deliberations.
That afternoon, the project was officially awarded to me.
When I walked out of the conference room, Thatcher was waiting.
He handed me a bouquet of flowers.
“Congratulations.”
I took them.
He opened the car door for me.
“How do you want to celebrate tonight?”
I thought for a moment.
“Go home and sleep.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just sleep?”
I shoved the flowers back into his arms.
“If you don’t like it, you can walk home.”