“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.