“I asked because…” She stops. Starts again. “Because I was curious.”
“No.”
She looks almost annoyed. “Must you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Answer my sentences like they’re compromised servers.”
“If they behave like compromised servers.”
That nearly earns a real laugh.
Instead she shakes her head. “I asked because I didn’t want to picture you going to dinner with someone who didn’t know how impossible you are.”
You say nothing.
She goes on before she can lose nerve.
“And because I wanted to know whether I was jealous.”
The office absorbs that confession like expensive carpet swallowing a dropped glass.
You have dealt with hostile code, criminal intrusions, defense contractors, political campaigns that treated cybersecurity like decorative insurance until they got hacked by a teenager in socks. None of that prepared you for the CEO of a multibillion-peso company standing barefoot in the gold light of her office, having just admitted she wanted to know whether she was jealous of your date.
This is exactly why men like you prefer machines.
Machines lie cleanly.
“You picked a terrible moment,” you say.
“Yes,” she replies. “I’m starting to see that.”
That is as much as either of you can afford right now.
You look at her phone still lying silent on the desk. “What I need from you is simple. You stay here. You call no one. You send one message, from your personal phone only, to Mauricio and Javier. Tell them you’re still in the office reviewing the final debt forecast and you may send revised numbers before nine.”
Alejandra’s eyes sharpen. “Why?”
“Because if they’re behind this, I want them comfortable. If they’re not, I want the actual attacker wondering why their trap is still open.”
She nods slowly. “And where are you in this plan?”
“Moving.”
The elevator ride down feels longer than it should.
In buildings like this, the executive floors are designed to make time feel obedient. Quiet motors. brushed steel. lighting that flatters stress into looking expensive. You stand alone under the recessed glow, watching the floor numbers descend while your mind maps the network in layers. Physical plant. credential tree. security feeds. shadow access. You replay the code shift you saw on her terminal and the hardware bridge under the painting. Two tracks. Maybe three.
By the time the doors open on thirty-four, you have already decided Javier Morales is either a co-conspirator or a very well-dressed idiot.
His office is empty.
That surprises you for exactly half a second before your eyes land on the coffee still warm on the side credenza. Monitor asleep. Jacket thrown over the chair. Phone charger plugged in. No briefcase. Men like Javier do not leave like that unless they believe they’re coming back in minutes or they left in a hurry to meet someone who outranks their caution.
You sit at his terminal.
The machine wakes under your borrowed access token. He is careless in the way self-satisfied men often are, all gestures toward sophistication and very little actual compartmentalization. Calendar open. Encrypted folder disguised under supply chain reports. A hidden chat client tucked behind a procurement dashboard. You dig.
There.
A live session, recently minimized.
No names, of course. People capable of this do not type “Hello, fellow traitor.” But the exchange is enough. Timestamps. Instructions. Confirmation that “the bridge in the glass office is live.” A note that the “vote package” must be out before 19:15. And then one message from fifteen minutes ago:
He’s in her office. Hold till I confirm.
You read it twice.
He.
Not Javier.
Not you, exactly. Someone else in the room. Someone watching from inside.
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