Page 64 of Bar Down

Reed turned to her with that smug half-smile that made her skin crawl. "I've always been fascinated by your loyalty, Stephanie. Even in Boston, you had your favorites."

She let the zinger pass over her head. It was obvious he was trying to sabotage her to Westfield’s face so that when he exposed the data tomorrow. She needed a diversion, something to redirect the conversation away from dangerous territory.

"Actually," she said, turning to Westfield, "I've been giving your proposal considerable thought."

“Good.”

She set down her glass. "I don't see the value of merging the two departments. There’s no need to change things. It’s been working, and working well with separate leadership."

Reed's attention sharpened—exactly as she'd intended. Nothing distracted men like Reed more effectively than a perceived challenge to their expertise.

"Analytics requires specialized knowledge," she continued, warming to her argument. "The mathematical models we’ve been using deserve dedicated focus."

“Didn’t Marcus Adeyemi come up with them?” Reed asked.

“He did.”

“So you’re saying a hockey player’s input is more important than someone with a business degree?” Reed scoffed.

“Marcus does have a business degree.”

Reed blinked at her, surprised.

She couldn’t believe he hadn’t done a deep dive on Marcus. He had just underestimated him as a dumb hockey player.

"An interesting perspective." Westfield studied her, clearly reassessing his assumptions. "You're advocating against your own promotion?"

"I'm advocating for organizational effectiveness," Stephanie corrected, keeping her expression professionally neutral despite her racing heart. "Communications and Analytics should collaborate closely but maintain distinct identities."

“I suppose the some of Adeyemi’s analytics require technical expertise that most communications professionals lack," Westfield said thoughtfully.

Stephanie bit back the urge to tell him that with proper training anyone could learn them. That wouldn’t help her argument.

"I've implemented similar systems across multiple organizations," Reed replied, his false modesty transparent.

Stephanie glared at him.

"Perhaps there's a middle ground,” he said unexpectedly.

“Wait,” she said, seeing the trap closing in around her.

Westfield nodded slowly, stroking his chin. "With you overseeing Analytics and Stephanie remaining in Communications."

The suggestion hit her like a body check. This wasn't at all what she'd intended.

"That would be ideal," Reed said, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. "I could ensure the analytics integration proceeds smoothly while respecting the unique requirements of both departments."

And if he managed to get rid of both her and Marcus, he’d have it all. Stephanie fought to keep her expression neutral as Reed's smugness filled the executive box. This was backfiring spectacularly. In trying to protect Marcus's analytics, she might have just delivered it to her enemy.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Chenny's signal.

"I've just had a thought," she said, standing suddenly. "We should toast to this new direction. The suite's champagne supply seems depleted, but I know where to find the reserve stock. Excuse me for a moment."

She didn't wait for a response, moving toward the door with measured steps that belied her internal panic. Once in the hallway, she checked the message:

Laptop in equipment closet, 30 feet left. Deleted blackmail files and installed tracker. Located backup server. Sent virus. Original data corrupted.

Relief washed through her so intensely that her knees nearly buckled. Chenny had done it. The immediate threat was neutralized. But Reed's smug assurance that he'd be taking over Analytics meant they weren't safe yet.

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