Chapter 3

After hanging up, I pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk.

Inside sat five neat manila folders, each labeled with a specific year, corresponding to every critical milestone account I had closed over the past half-decade.

It was a habit I’d built over five years: keeping paper trails of everything.

Richard always mocked me for being overly meticulous, calling it OCD.

Turns out, OCD can save your life.

At 2:50 PM, I arrived at the café down the street.

Arthur Miller was already seated in a corner booth by the window, skimming the menu.

A man in his early fifties, wearing a faded baseball cap and a washed-out polo shirt, he looked more like a retired guy heading out for a stroll than the chairman of a multi-million-dollar holding company.

"Arthur," I smiled as I approached.

He looked up, folding the menu. "Chloe! Come, have a seat."

I sat down and didn't jump straight into business.

Instead, I flagged the barista and ordered two Americanos—one iced for me, one room-temperature for him.

Arthur’s stomach couldn't handle ice. It was a detail I had noted the very first time we met.

"I heard about what happened," Arthur said, taking a sip from his cup before looking at me. "Richard is an idiot. But to be frank with you, my budget for this quarter has already been committed to his firm. Shifting it to your new agency on short notice won't look great to my board."

"You don't need to shift existing budget, Arthur." I slipped an envelope from my leather portfolio and slid a presentation across the table. "Take a look at this."

Arthur put on his reading glasses, read a few lines, and his brows shot up.

"The North Ridge development?"

"Exactly," I said, pointing to the highlighted terms. "Richard pitched you on the old downtown redevelopment project. It's high overhead, slow ROI, and ties up your capital for months. But I already secured prime entry terms with the developers of North Ridge. You can break ground within sixty days, and the first return hits your balance sheet before the fiscal year ends."

Arthur flipped through two pages and pulled off his glasses. "Chloe, why didn't you bring this to me sooner?"

"The timing wasn't right before. And Arthur, I do have one condition."

Arthur leaned back into the leather booth, folding his hands over his stomach. "Let's hear it."

"Richard's team won't be able to deliver on your old contract anyway. Have your legal counsel serve him a formal notice of termination for breach. I'll absorb the transition costs."

Arthur stared at me for a long time before letting out a hearty laugh. "Chloe, you're backing Richard straight into a corner."

"He threw the first punch," I said, taking a sip of coffee. "I just refuse to let five years of my life go down the drain."

The café’s AC blew cold against my neck. Condensation dripped down my glass, forming a neat wet ring on the polished wood.

Arthur put his glasses back on and read every single word across the three pages.

When he finally closed the folder, rain began pattering against the windowpane outside, blurring the office towers across the street.

"Deal," Arthur said, slipping the file into his briefcase. "I'll have my lawyers draft the termination notice this afternoon. But Chloe, running a massive account like this alone... do you have the team for it?"

"They're already on their way," I smiled. "Don't worry."

By the time I walked Arthur out, the downpour had slowed to a drizzle.

I stood under the awning, watching his sedan merge into traffic, its red taillights reflecting off the wet asphalt.

When I got back to my floor, Zoe was on the phone, looking frantic.

"Chloe, we have a problem!" She hung up and rushed over. "Richard just made a move. He sent cease-and-desist letters to every single one of our prospective clients, accusing us of stealing trade secrets!"