“Ma’am, you’re in the wrong department,” the young clerks said with a grin as they glanced at the fresh recruit. They had no idea that I had just bought the whole firm.
“Who are you talking to?” a bloke tossed over the reception desk, eyes glued to his smartphone.
His trendy haircut and logo‑splashed hoodie shouted self‑importance and a total disregard for anyone else.
Elizabeth Anderson adjusted the modest but sturdy satchel on her shoulder. She had dressed deliberately to stay unnoticed: a plain blouse, a skirt just below the knee, sensible flats with no heels.
The former director, Gregory—grey‑haired and weary from office intrigue, the man with whom she had sealed the purchase—smiled when she laid out her plan.
“A Trojan horse, Elizabeth,” he said respectfully. “They’ll swallow the bait without seeing the hook. They’ll never untangle you—until it’s too late.”
“I’m your new colleague. Documentation department,” she replied, voice calm and deliberately low, stripped of any hint of authority.
At last the young man lifted his gaze. He scanned her from head to toe—well‑worn shoes to neatly brushed grey hair—and a thin, unabashed smirk flickered across his face. He made no effort to hide it.
“Oh right, they said there’d be an induction. Got the security pass?” he asked.
“Yes, here it is.”
He lazily tapped a finger toward the turnstile as if pointing a lost compass.
“Your desk is somewhere over there, at the far end of the hall. Figure it out.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I will,” she thought, marching toward the buzzing open‑plan floor that resembled a beehive.
She had been untangling her life for forty years. She had rescued a near‑bankrupt business after her husband’s sudden death, turning it into a profitable enterprise.
She had wrestled with complex investments that later multiplied her capital. She had survived the loneliness of a vast, empty house in ’65 without losing her mind.
Buying this thriving yet, in her view, internally rotting IT‑company was the most intriguing of her recent “untanglings”.
Her desk sat at the very end, next to the archive door. Old, scratched, and with a squeaky chair, it looked like a tiny island of the past in a sea of gleaming technology.
“Settling in alright?” a sweet‑toned voice drifted over. Standing before her was Olivia, head of marketing, in an immaculate ivory‑coloured suit.
She smelled of expensive perfume and success.
“I’m trying,” Elizabeth smiled softly.
“You’ll need to sort the contracts for the Altair project from last year. They’re in the archive.” Olivia’s tone was patronising, as if issuing instructions to someone with limited abilities.
Olivia gave her a look the way one would cast at a fascinating fossil. As she strode away, heels clicking, Elizabeth heard a low chuckle behind her:
“Our HR’s gone off his rocker. Soon they’ll be hiring dinosaurs.”
Elizabeth pretended not to hear. She needed to keep moving.
She headed for the development wing, pausing by a glass meeting room where a few young men were heatedly debating.
“Miss, can I help you find something?” a tall lad called out as he rose from his table.
Stanley, lead developer—future star of the company, according to his own résumé—smiled and turned to his colleagues, who watched the scene like a free‑ticket show.
“Just the archive, please,” Elizabeth replied.
Stanley laughed, gesturing vaguely toward her desk. “Ma’am, you’re definitely in the wrong department. The archive’s over there.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We’re doing real work here—stuff you’ve never even dreamed of.”
A hush fell over the small crowd behind him. A cold, steady anger rose in Elizabeth’s chest.
She stared at their smug faces, at the pricey watch on Stanley’s wrist—money she herself had put into the company.
“Thank you,” she said evenly. “Now I know exactly where I’m headed.”
The archive turned out to be a cramped, windowless room. Elizabeth set to work, locating the Altair folder without delay.
She sifted through the papers methodically—contracts, annexes, certificates. At first glance everything seemed in order, but her seasoned eye lingered on the minutiae. The sums in the contractor’s invoices for Cyber‑Systems were rounded to the nearest thousand pounds—a tell‑tale sign of either laziness or an attempt to conceal the, shall we say, true figures.
The descriptions of work were vague: “consultancy services”, “analytical support”, “process optimisation”. Classic money‑laundering patterns she’d seen back in the nineties.
A few hours later the door creaked and a young woman with frightened eyes slipped in.
“Good afternoon. I’m Ethel from accounts. Olivia said you were here… you’re probably struggling without access to the digital system? I can show you.”
There was not a hint of superiority in her tone.
“Thank you, Ethel. That would be very kind,” Elizabeth replied.
“No trouble at all. It’s just that… well… not everyone was born with a tablet in their hand,” Ethel blushed, chuckling.
While Ethel walked her through the software, Elizabeth thought that even in a swamp a clean spring could be found.
Before Ethel could leave, Stanley re‑entered.
“I need the contract with Cyber‑Systems. ASAP,” he demanded, as if issuing a military order.
“Good day,” Elizabeth answered calmly. “I’m just reviewing those documents now. Give me a minute.”
“A minute? I have no minute. I have a call in five. Why isn’t this digitised yet? What of you, what exactly do you do here?”
His arrogance was his Achilles’ heel. He was convinced no one—especially an old woman—could question his work.
“I’m on my first day,” she said evenly. “And I’m trying to fix what wasn’t done before I arrived.”
“I don’t care!” he snapped, snatching the needed folder from her desk. “Old people always cause trouble.”
He stormed out, slamming the door. Elizabeth didn’t watch him go; she had already seen enough.
She pulled out her phone and dialled her personal solicitor.
“Arthur, good afternoon. Could you check a company for me? Cyber‑Systems. I have a feeling the owners are… interesting.”
The next morning the line rang.
“Elizabeth, you were right. Cyber‑Systems is a shell. It’s registered to a certain Mr. Peters, who happens to be the cousin of your lead developer, Stanley. Classic scheme.”
“Thank you, Arthur. That’s all I needed to know.”
The climax arrived after lunch. All staff were summoned to the weekly briefing. Olivia beamed as she spoke of the latest achievements.
“Ah, I seem to have forgotten to print the conversion report. Elizabeth,” her voice, amplified by the mic, carried a cold sneer, “please fetch the Q4 folder from the archive. And do try not to get lost in there.”
A low chuckle rippled through the room. Elizabeth rose calmly. The point of no return was already behind her. She returned a few minutes later to find Stanley standing beside Olivia, whispering conspiratorially.
“Here’s our saviour!” Stanley announced with feigned warmth. “We need to work faster. Time is money. Especially our money.”
The word “our” was the final drop.
Elizabeth straightened, shedding any hint of slouch. Her gaze turned icy and unflinching.
“You’re right, Stanley. Time truly is money. Especially the money that’s been siphoned through Cyber‑Systems. Doesn’t it seem this project has been more profitable for you personally than for the company?”
Stanley’s face twisted, his smile vanished.
“I… I don’t quite follow what you’re saying…”
“Really? Then perhaps you could explain to everyone here who this Mr. Peters fellow is?”
A heavy silence fell. Olivia tried to intervene.
“Excuse me, but what does this… employee have to do with the company’s finances?”
Elizabeth didn’t even look at her. She walked to the front of the table and took her place.
“I have a direct connection. Allow me to introduce myself: Elizabeth Anderson, the new owner of this firm.”
If a grenade had exploded in the room, the impact would have been less startling.
“Stanley,” she continued in a voice as cold as ice, “you are dismissed. My lawyers will be in touch with you and your relative. I would advise you not to leave the city just yet.”
Stanley sank into his chair as if the air had been squeezed out of him.
“You, Olivia, are also terminated. For professional incompetence and creating a toxic atmosphere.”
Olivia’s face flushed with fury.
“How dare you!”
“I have every right to do so,” Elizabeth replied tersely. “You have one hour to collect your things. Security will escort you out.”
The same applied to anyone who thought age gave them a licence to be ignored. The young receptionist and two developers from the coding team were also shown the door.
A genuine shock swept through the office.
“Over the coming days the company will undergo a full audit,” she announced.
Her eyes landed on Ethel, standing at the far end of the room.
“Ethel, could you come here, please?”
The girl trembled, but obeyed.
“In just two days you’ve been the only one to show both professionalism and plain humanity. I’m setting up a new internal‑controls department and I’d like you to join my team. Tomorrow we’ll discuss your new role and training.”
Ethel opened her mouth, speechless.
“You’ll manage,” Elizabeth said confidently. “Now, everyone else—except those dismissed—back to work. The day is not over.”
She turned and walked out, leaving behind the shattered glow of self‑importance.
She felt no triumph, only a cold satisfaction, the kind that follows a job well done. To rebuild a sturdy house, one must first clear the site of rot.
And that, she thought, was just the beginning of her thorough house‑cleaning.
