Chapter 6 - The Trap
By eight o'clock on Wednesday morning, the sun was shining brightly over the city, casting long shadows across the lobby of Anderson Meridian Group.
Riley didn't put on her gray uniform.
Instead, she walked into the building wearing a dark navy tailored suit, a white silk blouse, and high heels she had retrieved from her personal apartment across town. Her hair was styled in a sleek, professional bob, and she carried a dark leather folio beneath her arm.
The security guard at the front desk—a young man named Tim who had seen her pushing a mop twelve hours earlier—blinked in complete shock as she walked past him.
"Uh... Miss Hale?" Tim stammered, standing up. "Where’s your badge? You can't go up to twenty-eight without a visitor pass."
Riley stopped and looked at him. Her expression was calm, cool, and completely unreadable.
"Tim," she said smoothly. "Call the executive garage. Have my father's car brought around to the front entrance for eleven AM. And tell Mr. Vance in facilities that he is required in the main boardroom immediately."
Tim’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. "Your... your father?"
"Do it now, Tim," she said, turning toward the private executive elevators.
She took the express elevator straight to the twenty-fourth floor.
When she stepped out into the HR department, the floor was already bustling with activity. Junior recruiters were at their desks, analysts were holding coffee cups, and Cara Whitmore was standing outside her corner office, giving instructions to two junior assistants.
Cara turned as the sound of Riley’s heels clicked against the hardwood floor.
Cara’s eyes swept over the tailored navy suit, the silk blouse, and the sharp, dangerous posture of the woman walking toward her. It took her three full seconds to recognize the face beneath the polished look.
"Hale?" Cara blurted out, her jaw dropping. "What the hell are you wearing? What are you doing on this floor?"
Zach Porter stepped out of his office behind Cara, holding a folder. He took one look at Riley and snickered.
"Well, look at that," Zach said, leaning against the doorframe. "The temp dressed up. Did you rob a thrift store, Riley? Or are you trying to apply for a promotion before I file your termination paperwork?"
Riley stopped five feet from them. She didn't smile. She didn't show anger. She looked at them with the cold, detached interest of a scientist examining specimens under a microscope.
"Miss Whitmore. Mr. Porter," Riley said, her voice carrying clearly across the quiet office floor. "You are both summoned to the main boardroom on twenty-eight. Right now."
Cara let out a loud, harsh laugh. "Summoned? By whom? You?"
"By the board of directors," Riley replied calmly. "And by Charles Anderson."
Zach’s grin faltered slightly. He looked at Cara, then back at Riley. "What are you talking about? Mr. Anderson doesn't hold unscheduled meetings with Tier-3 staff."
"I’m not Tier-3 staff, Zach," Riley said softly.
She pulled her corporate identification card from her jacket pocket—the gold-embossed executive pass she hadn't used in thirty days—and held it up.
Printed beneath her photograph were four words:
RILEY ANDERSON HALE
VICE PRESIDENT OF STRATEGY & DEVELOPMENT
Cara Whitmore’s face drained of every ounce of color. The folder in Zach Porter’s hand slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud.
"No..." Cara whispered, her voice trembling violently. "No, that’s... that’s impossible. You've been cleaning bathrooms for a month!"
"I have," Riley said, stepping closer until she was inches from Cara’s pale face. "And I found a great deal of dirt."
May you like
She turned on her heel and walked toward the elevators.
"Twenty-eight," Riley called back over her shoulder. "Don't keep the CEO waiting. You know how he feels about poor cultural fits."
