“Oh, he’s getting his,” says Walsh, folding her arms across her chest.

At two o’clock on the nose, Marlen strides into the lobby, footsteps echoing off marble. He inclines his chin at me as he passes, and I nod in return.

When the door closes behind him, he starts the meeting.

Graeme and I barely speak as we listen, ears straining. Words float in and out like a badly tuned radio. The AC is humming from a vent directly above us and all we can see are indistinct blobs through the conference room’s frosted glass wall. Sadie, the receptionist, pops her bubblegum, and I’m tempted to shush her like a Catholic school nun.

A pair of heels clicks across the foyer. “Sorry, that meeting with the itinerary manager took longer than I expected. How’s it going?” Christina asks.

“The board meeting just started. I think James is about to speak,” I say.

With absolutely no decorum, Christina flops into the chair next to me and presses her ear to the opaque glass wall. All pretext abandoned, Graeme, Walsh, and I follow suit.

James is talking, all right. He’s giving my presentation. Or rather, a dumbed-down rendition of it. He’s limiting himself to the Galápagos Islands, unlike my scaled-up version, and he flubs some of the numbers. And it’s clear from his money-driven talk that he doesn’t get it. Not really. For him, it’s all about sales, when really, it’s about inspiring people, adopting stronger corporate responsibility, and making a difference.

After ten minutes of impressive-sounding bluster, a general murmur sounds from the rest of the executive board.

Marlen’s voice rings loud and clear. “That is a very interesting idea. How did you come up with it?”

A chair groans. I can just imagine James leaning back, hands behind his head. “As you know, I recently sent two of our marketing staff down to the Galápagos for familiarization trips, and their experience inspired me. I thought: Why not solicit donations for conservation efforts and use that as a cornerstone of our marketing in the region?”

I grind my molars like an industrial sander. Graeme’s nostrils flare and his face flushes.

“So, this is your idea?”

James coughs. “That’s what I said.”

“You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have irrefutable evidence that what you just presented is, in fact, work that belongs to Henley Evans.”

“What evidence?”

“Time-stamped emails and metadata.”

Chairs inside the conference creak and James lets out a disapproving snort. “What does it matter? She’s my staff, my subordinate. Her idea, our idea. It’s a win for the marketing team.”

“It’s a win for you,” Marlen booms.

The conference room falls silent. Even Sadie in the lobby stops chewing her gum at the shouting.