Shipped(83)

I wedge an arm across my chest and stride to the other side of the room. “Why? What’s going on?’

“It’s James.” Her breath hitches, and I catch a jangle of earrings against the phone that sounds like she’s walking somewhere quickly. “He called a meeting of the executive board for one o’clock today. He’s presenting your fund-raising proposal.”

My jaw falls open. “Oh. That’s a one eighty. Well, that’s… that’s great. I can be in before then, for sure. Would he like me to present or does he want to—”

“No,” she blurts. “You’re not getting it. He emailed me the PowerPoint for your Galápagos proposal. I thought it looked familiar, so I double-checked the metadata, and sure enough, you’re listed as the author. Except when I opened the file, your name was nowhere on it, but his was. Right there on the title slide: James P. Wilcox. Henley, he doesn’t want you to come to the board meeting. He’s stealing your idea.”

My heart thunders in my ears like the roar of the ocean. “He’s what?” My voice is low and deadly and reaches me as though it’s echoing through a long tunnel.

“He’s passing it off as his own; he’s stealing it. And that’s not even the worst part.”

What in ever-loving hell could be worse than that?

“It’s not the first time he’s done it.”





28




All the blood rushes to my head and I sink onto the couch. “What?”

“He’s been stealing your ideas for two years, maybe longer,” says Barbara. “I had no idea until today. I’m so sorry.”

My gaze connects with Graeme’s.

“What’s going on?” he mouths.

Covering the microphone with my palm, I quickly fill him in. Fire explodes behind his eyes and he balls his hands into fists. “James,” he breathes, his tone pure venom.

I return my attention to the call. “How do you know all this?”

“I wasn’t sure at first, but after he sent me the PowerPoint I started going back through his files, comparing metadata. I’ve found proof that he’s taken documents you created, removed your name, and then passed them off to Marlen like they were his. Emails between them confirm it.”

“Like what? What documents?”

“Oh God, where to begin… The most recent was a memo copied and pasted from a Google Doc, something about Snapchat.”

“Expanding our marketing strategy to Snapchat?”

“Bingo.”

“Motherfucker,” I breathe. “That was my idea. He shot it down at a staff meeting last spring and made feel like I was stupid for even bringing it up. He told me—” I gasp, and lock eyes with Graeme. “He told me to come to him first before adding any new ideas to our shared marketing department planning doc in the future.”

“Because he wants to keep your ideas to himself,” Graeme growls through gritted teeth.

The realization hits me like an ocean liner.

James never had any intention of promoting me—ever. If it weren’t for Marlen suggesting me for the position, James never would have put my name forward as a director. Because he wants me right where I am: his workaholic underling feeding him a pipeline of ideas he can pass off as his own to boost his career.

I see red. I literally see red—every shade from magenta to scarlet overlays my apartment. War drums beat through every corner of my mind.

The front door opens and closes and Walsh’s voice rings through the apartment. “Honey, I’m home! I hope you two are decent!”

“Barbara, can you hold on a sec?”

“Sure.”

I press my cell to my shoulder.

Walsh lopes into the living room and stops dead, taking in the scene. “Who died?”

“No one yet,” I growl.

Graeme kneels in front of me. “Henley, you need to get in there and pitch your idea to Marlen. Now. Before James takes it to the executive board.”

I stop grinding my molars and take a deep, bracing breath. “You’re right. The longer I wait, the harder it’ll be to convince him I came up with it first.” I lift the phone to my ear again. “Barbara, can you get me in to see Marlen today before one?”

“I’ll make it happen. Rose owes me a favor. Just get here as soon as you can, okay?”

“Thanks. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I tap the end call button and stare at my phone for three hectic heartbeats before springing from my seat. “I’m pitching it now. I’m pitching it now.”

“Wait, your ecotourism proposal? I thought that was tomorrow.” Walsh’s eyes are wide.

“I’ll get us an Uber,” says Graeme, whipping his cell out of his back pocket.

I dash for the bedroom, peeling my shirt over my head as I go and shimmying out of my yoga pants. Walsh follows me. “Wait, what’s going on?”

“My boss has been screwing me over, that’s what. I just found out from Barbara that he’s been stealing credit for my ideas behind the scenes to help himself get ahead.”

“That asshole. Where is he? I’m going to gut him like a toad.”

My lips quiver at the razor blades in her tone. “Just help me get dressed.”