Chapter 6: Bianca’s Copy
Rosalie found Lena in a narrow conference room with the blinds drawn and three cups of untouched coffee lined along the windowsill. On Lena’s laptop, a gray progress bar sat frozen beneath a folder labeled BLUE HORIZON. The company’s live project files were gone, but the deletion report showed something Garrett’s team had not reached: a separate backup archive.
“It’s a mirror, not a miracle,” Lena said. “The archive still has the folder structure. We’re checking whether the actual documents survived.”
Rosalie set Christopher’s email beside the laptop. Garrett’s neat instruction to keep her out of the presentation seemed to stare back at her.
“If it’s intact, can we see who changed the collection schedule?”
“If the version history survived.” Lena tapped the desk once, impatient with the machine, not Rosalie. “I’ve got someone checking the archive now. Until then, we don’t know what’s in there—or who else knows it exists.”
Rosalie’s phone buzzed. A message from an unfamiliar number appeared on the screen.
Loading entrance. Ten minutes. I have something Garrett can’t find.
Lena read it over her shoulder. “Who is it?”
“Bianca.”
“Do you believe her?”
“No.” Rosalie slipped the phone into her coat pocket. “But I believe she’s afraid.”
Lena reached for her own coat. “That isn’t the same thing as being safe.”
“I know.”
They left by the side entrance, avoiding the West Enterprises lobby where Rosalie’s access had been suspended. The loading entrance opened onto a service alley that smelled of wet cardboard, diesel, and yesterday’s rain. A delivery truck idled at the curb, its engine rattling against the brick walls.
Bianca stood beside a stack of empty pallets. She had traded her boardroom suit for a dark coat, but she still looked as though she expected someone to tell her where to stand. When she saw Rosalie, her gaze flicked first to Lena, then to the street behind them.
“You came,” Bianca said.
“You asked me to.”
“I thought you might bring security.”
“I’m not the one who called them.”
Bianca’s mouth tightened. For a moment, the laughter she’d offered in the boardroom seemed to come back between them, small and ugly. Then Bianca looked down at her hands.
“I prepared the dilution presentation,” she said. “The whole deck.”
Lena’s expression hardened. “You presented it as a neutral restructuring.”
“I know what I did.” Bianca glanced up at Rosalie. “Garrett told me the numbers were approved. He said the change was necessary before the offering, and that you’d be paid fairly in the divorce.”
“You knew I hadn’t agreed.”
“I knew you were angry.” Bianca swallowed. “I told myself that wasn’t the same thing.”
Rosalie felt the familiar pull to soften the silence, to make room for Bianca’s fear before Bianca had earned the space. She let the silence stand.
“What changed?” Rosalie asked.
“I found a transfer in the Blue Horizon schedule. Receivables were being routed somewhere other than the designated account.” Bianca’s voice dropped. “I asked Garrett where they were going. He said it was temporary, that I didn’t need to worry about it.”
“And you believed him?”
“I wanted to.” Bianca looked toward the mouth of the alley. “He’d already promised me the operations director job after the offering. I thought if I kept asking questions, he’d decide I wasn’t useful.”
The words were plausible. So was the calculation beneath them. Rosalie could hear both.
“Did you know the financing terms depended on the designated account?” Lena asked.
Bianca shook her head. “Not until I saw the schedule. The project files were still there then. I went back this morning, and my access was cut off.”
“You’re sure Garrett knew about the transfer?” Rosalie asked.
“I’m sure he told me not to look at it.”
Bianca reached inside her coat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Before she could pass it over, her phone chimed. She glanced down, and the color drained from her face.
“What is it?” Rosalie asked.
“My access.” Bianca’s fingers tightened around the phone. “They just revoked everything. Email, files, calendar. All of it.”
A second chime sounded. Bianca flinched as if the phone had struck her.
“Garrett knows,” Lena said.
“He knows I’m locked out,” Bianca replied. “He’ll figure out why.”
She pushed the folded sheet into Rosalie’s hand.
“Is this the original?”
“It’s a copy. I printed it before I lost access.”
“Why didn’t you bring it to Lena?”
“Because I didn’t know if she was already working with Garrett.”
Lena’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t answer.
Bianca backed toward the alley mouth. “I’m sorry about the boardroom.”
“You didn’t move,” Rosalie said.
Bianca stopped. For a moment, something like shame crossed her face; then the truck’s engine coughed, and she turned sharply toward the street.
“Don’t call me,” she said. “Not until I know what he can see.”
She hurried out of the alley and disappeared into the foot traffic.
Rosalie unfolded the schedule. Its columns were cramped with account numbers, dates, and routing instructions. A line near the bottom named a recipient: Northstar Strategic Services. Beside it sat an address in lower Manhattan.
Lena leaned closer. “That name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Could be an operating company.”
“Could be.”
Neither of them said what the empty language of the name suggested. Rosalie took a photograph of the page, then folded it along its original creases and tucked it inside her coat.
The archive technician called as they reached the sidewalk. Lena listened, then turned her phone so Rosalie could hear the final sentence.
“The backup index is there,” the technician said. “But the project folder is still being restored. I can’t tell you what survived until it finishes.”
Lena thanked him and ended the call.
“So we have a schedule,” Rosalie said, “and no proof of what it means.”
“Yet.”
They took a car to the listed address. The ride passed in a blur of brake lights and gray stone; Rosalie kept the schedule folded in her lap, her thumb pressed over Northstar’s name. She wondered whether Bianca had handed it over because she wanted the truth found—or because she wanted someone else standing between her and Garrett.
The address led them to a narrow storefront between a shuttered tailor and a pharmacy. Dust filmed the front windows. A crooked paper sign taped inside read FOR LEASE.
Lena checked the schedule again, then looked through the glass.
May you like
“No office,” she said.
Rosalie stared at the empty room beyond the sign. On the schedule in her hand, Northstar had been assigned a route for Blue Horizon’s money. Its registered address was a vacant storefront.
