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The next day I walked into headquarters—glass walls, clean lines, the kind of place people photograph for business magazines—and took the elevator to the executive floor.
My dad was waiting in his office with the HR director. A thick folder sat on the desk. And he had a look in his eyes I recognized from childhood—the look that meant a problem had just landed in his hands.
He tapped the folder.
“We received a job application,” he said.
I frowned. “For what position?”
He slid the top page toward me.
The name at the top stopped my breath.
Grant Ellis.
My dad’s tone stayed calm. “He applied for a management role in Operations,” he said. “And he listed your old address as his emergency contact.”
I stared at the paper, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“He doesn’t know,” I whispered.
My dad’s mouth tightened. “No,” he said. “He doesn’t.”
Then he looked at me.
“Would you like to handle this,” he asked, “or should I?”
Part 3
I didn’t want revenge. Not the dramatic kind people imagine—the kind where you humiliate someone in a crowded room while everyone applauds.
What I wanted was something quieter.
Something precise.
I wanted Grant to understand consequences.
“Let me,” I told my dad.
He nodded once, like he had expected that answer. “All right. But it will be done professionally.”
The HR director scheduled Grant for a final-round interview two days later. They didn’t tell him who the senior leadership panel would be. They rarely did at that stage. Grant would walk in assuming he had impressed them with his résumé and polished answers.
On the day of the interview, I wore a simple navy dress and tied my hair back. Noah stayed with my aunt. I practiced breathing in the bathroom mirror because I refused to let Grant see me shake.
The conference room had a long glass table, a pitcher of water, and a view of downtown. My dad sat at one end, expression neutral. The HR director sat beside him. I took the third seat with a folder in front of me.
Grant arrived five minutes early, confident, smiling like he owned the room. He looked healthier than he had in months—new haircut, expensive watch, the same grin he used to flash at waiters to get free drinks.
“Good morning,” he said.
Then his eyes landed on me.