The first thing people noticed about me that afternoon wasn't the Porsche. It was the shirt. A plain white button-down shirt.

With the evidence in hand, I couldn't just walk into the boardroom and slam it on the table. Sterling would claim it was fabricated. I needed a confession, and I needed it on the record.

I called Sarah. "Set up a private meeting with Sterling. Just him and me. Tell him I’m ready to negotiate my exit package."

"Elias, are you sure?" Sarah asked, panic bleeding through the phone. "If you surrender—"

"I'm not surrendering. Just make the call."

I met Sterling at a high-end steakhouse downtown. I booked the entire restaurant to ensure privacy, leaving just the bartender and one waiter. Sterling arrived looking smug, wearing a three-piece suit and the arrogance of a man who thought he had already won.

"Elias," he greeted, sitting down and waving dismissively at the menu. "I’m glad you finally saw reason. It’s nothing personal. It's just business."

"I agree," I said, sliding a single piece of paper across the linen tablecloth. It was the transaction record from Julian Vance's shell company to Sterling's offshore account.

Sterling looked at the paper. The smugness vanished, replaced by stark, suffocating terror.

"Federal prison for corporate espionage and insider trading is approximately ten years, Thomas," I said quietly, cutting into my steak. "I have a team of lawyers who will ensure you serve every single day of it."