Split Reflections

Chapter 16-Strings Attached

48 Hours After the Panic Room Revelations
Hale & Windsor Headquarters – Archives Level, 9:17 a.m.

The thirty-seventh floor no longer felt like a place where decisions were made. It felt like a mausoleum.

Yellow evidence tape slashed across Margot Sinclair's former office, her nameplate already removed, the glass walls stripped of authority. Jordan's executive suite stood dark and untouched, as if the building itself refused to acknowledge his absence. The company still breathed, still traded, still generated profit—but its soul had been amputated.

Miles led the way into the archival wing, his badge granting access through a biometric door that sealed behind us with a sound too final to ignore. The air inside was colder than the rest of the building, regulated to preserve paper and memory. Rows of mobile shelving stretched toward fluorescent infinity, each unit humming faintly as if whispering to its neighbors.

"External auditors want context," Miles said quietly. "Not just transactions—intent. Jordan believed records told stories if you knew where to look."

Selena and I exchanged a glance before following him deeper inside.

Miles stopped at a shelving unit marked STRATEGIC TALENT – CONFIDENTIAL (2010–2016). He slid the aisle open. Boxes lined the shelves, uniformly labeled, methodical in Jordan's unmistakable way.

He pulled one free.

AC-STRAT

My initials.

A chill slid down my spine.

Miles set the box on a stainless-steel cart and snapped on gloves. "This doesn't mean what you think," he said carefully, already anticipating impact.

"I don't know what I think yet," I replied.

Inside lay a thin manila folder—no thicker than dozens of others. My résumé stared back at me, younger, hopeful, meticulously formatted. Columbia Business School. Debate team. Volunteer work with Greenbriar Children's Foundation.

I frowned. "HR told me I came through the standard portal."

"You did," Miles said. "But before that—someone noticed you."

He turned the page.

A Talent Observation Memo, dated three months prior to my application.

Not a hiring directive. Not a guarantee.

An observation.

The memo summarized my academic work, a panel appearance I'd done on ethical capitalism, a charity case study I'd published online. At the bottom, in Jordan's familiar handwriting:

Potential. Monitor discreetly. If she applies, ensure fair process—no algorithmic drop.

My breath caught—not at manipulation, but recognition.

Selena leaned closer. "He didn't place you. He flagged you."

Miles nodded. "Jordan never overrode hiring committees. He hated that kind of power. He simply made sure talent didn't get filtered out before it had a chance."

Another note followed—months later, post-hire.

She earned this. Don't interfere.

I pressed my fingers to the edge of the cart, grounding myself.

"He never told me," I said.

"He planned to," Miles replied. "After the wedding. He was terrified you'd doubt yourself."