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The day of the board meeting arrived, a rainy Tuesday that matched the mood I had carefully cultivated over the preceding weeks. I had been exceptionally warm and supportive that morning, reminding him to take his lucky pen and wishing him success—a performance that only underscored his sense of entitlement and reinforced his distraction. The execution began not in the boardroom, but at the historical society gala the previous Friday. Speaking eloquently to a circle of city council members, I spoke about my recent, deeply moving discovery of original city blueprints from 1920. I mentioned, in passing, how these maps clearly showed the location of the abandoned, but still protected main city water conduit, running directly beneath the old docklands, precisely where his main tower foundation was planned. I emphasized my hope that he, being so busy, hadn’t missed this ancient but crucial detail. The council members, already aware of the whispers of his professional “distraction” thanks to his rivals, paid close attention.
At the board meeting, he delivered his presentation with his usual flair. He confidently projected the structural report, the one I had subtly altered. Everything seemed fine until the skeptical board member, who had received an anonymous, meticulously sourced email containing my ‘concern’ and a link to the 1920 blueprints, cleared his throat. “Could you confirm the precise depth of the required pilings? And confirm the status regarding the environmental conflict we discussed months ago?” he asked. The Architect, thrown by the unexpected focus on minute details, fumbled. He confidently referred to the numbers on the slide—the incorrect, exaggerated depth I had inserted—and waved off the conflict, claiming it was resolved. “The report is current, sir. Everything is signed off.”
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